I realized, when she took her clothes off, that I hadn't even tried to estimate what her breasts might be like, which was pretty sensitive going for a guy such as me. And her breasts were eventually strange soft things, pale and unobtrusive. She thought I was disappointed, making the woman's mistake of not understanding how little her breasts mattered in the scheme of love.
And I knew when my skin touched her skin that I probably wasn't going to kill myself for a while, that life was fundamentally a pretty sound commodity when it could include a girl like Mary. And when she touched me she touched the matter in me. She touched me through. ‎- волна бургерных
— Robert McLiam Wilson, Eureka Street: A Novel of Ireland Like No Other ‎- волна бургерных
Barry `Bun' Doran was a guy we knew. A weirdo from Bosnia Street with whom Chuckie had been to school. Doran only worked as an office clerk but he had a big bee in his bonnet about personal freedom. He didn't like authority. A couple of years before he had decided that, most of all, he hated traffic lights. He felt that they interfered with his personal autonomy, his right to walk where and when he wanted. He started a campaign of ignoring the commands of traffic lights. He was run over by a bus on the Dublin Road. His legs were so badly broken that even when fixed up they were stiff as boards. ‎- волна бургерных
Chuckie frowned at me. `That's her name,' he said. 'What is?' I asked, perplexed. The girl made the choking noise again. 'That,' said Chuckle. It took ten minutes and they ended up borrowing a pen from a waiter and writing it down on a napkin but in the end I determined that the girl was called Aoirghe. It was Irish. And the thing about people with those kinds of names was that they didn't enjoy lexical comedy at their expense. It still sounded like a cough to me. ‎- волна бургерных