“It's an Irish story, love, Mrs. Wylltson said. We don't do happy endings.”

“I love stories with a happy ending,” Inspector Me said.”

“He said you have to be on the side of the losers, the people with bad lungs. You have to be with those who are homesick and can't breathe very well in Ireland. He said it makes no sense to hold a stone in your hand. A lot more people would be homeless if you speak the killer language. He said Ireland has more than one story. We are the German-Irish story. We are the English-Irish story, too. My father has one soft foot and one hard foot, one good ear and one bad ear, and we have one Irish foot and one German foot and a right arm in English. We are the brack children. Brack, homemade Irish bread with German raisins. We are the brack people and we don't have just one language and one history. We sleep in German and we dream in Irish. We laugh in Irish and we cry in German. We are silent in German and we speak in English. We are the speckled people.”

“Men cheat. They lie. They love porn. The don't respect you and don't care if they hurt you. It's the fucking breaks. Women divorce 'em 'cause we can't tame 'em or train 'em or control 'em like we do household pets. End of story.”

“Mom, why couldn't my story, my real life story have a happy ending - like in the books?""No true love story has a happy ending; one always must die and leave the other. So there's never a totally happy ending.”

“True stories seldom have endings.I don't want a happy ending, I want more story.”