Conor Quotes

Conor held tightly onto his mother. And by doing so, he could finally let her go.

But what is a dream, Conor O'Malley? the monster said, bending down so it's face was close to Conor's. Who is to say that it is not everything else that is the dream?

And if one day,' she said, really crying now, 'you look back and you feel bad for being so angry, if you feel bad for being so angry at me that you couldn't even speak to me, then you have to know, Conor, you have to that is was okay. It was okay. That I knew. I know, okay? I know everything you need to tell me without you having to say it out loud.

Conor was no longer invisible. They all saw him now. But he was further away than ever.

Who am I? the monster repeated, still roaring. I am the spine that the mountains hang upon! I am the tears that the rivers cry! I am the lungs that breathe the wind! I am the wolf that kills the stag, the hawk that kills the mouse, the spider that kills the fly! I am the stag, the mouse and the fly that are eaten! I am the snake of the world devouring its tail! I am everything untamed and untameable! It brought Conor up close to its eye. I am thils wild earth, come for you, Conor O'Malley. "You look like a tree," Conor said.

Who cares even if I didn't?!" Conor shouted back. "They're just stupid berries. Woo-hoo, so scary. Oh, please, please, save me from the berries!" The monster looked at him quizzically. How strange, it said. The words you say tell me you are scared of the berries, but your actions seems to suggest otherwise.

You must speak the truth and you must speak it now, Conor O'Malley. Say it. You must. Conor shook his head again, his mouth clamped shut tight, but he could feel a burning in his chest, like a fire someone had lit there, a miniature sun, blazing away and burning him from the inside. “It'll kill me if I do,” he gasped. It will kill you if you do not, the monster said. You must say it.

Stories are the wildest things of all, the monster rumbled. Stories chase and bite and hunt. That's what teachers always say, Conor said. No one believes them either.

Marginalia Sometimes the notes are ferocious, skirmishes against the author raging along the borders of every page in tiny black script. If I could just get my hands on you, Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien, they seem to say, I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head. Other comments are more offhand, dismissive - Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" - that kind of thing. I remember once looking up from my reading, my thumb as a bookmark, trying to imagine what the person must look like who wrote "Don't be a ninny" alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson. Students are more modest needing to leave only their splayed footprints along the shore of the page. One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's. Another notes the presence of "Irony" fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal. Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers, Hands cupped around their mouths. Absolutely," they shout to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin. Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!" Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points rain down along the sidelines. And if you have managed to graduate from college without ever having written "Man vs. Nature" in a margin, perhaps now is the time to take one step forward. We have all seized the white perimeter as our own and reached for a pen if only to show we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages; we pressed a thought into the wayside, planted an impression along the verge. Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria jotted along the borders of the Gospels brief asides about the pains of copying, a bird singing near their window, or the sunlight that illuminated their page- anonymous men catching a ride into the future on a vessel more lasting than themselves. And you have not read Joshua Reynolds, they say, until you have read him enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling. Yet the one I think of most often, the one that dangles from me like a locket, was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye I borrowed from the local library one slow, hot summer. I was just beginning high school then, reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room, and I cannot tell you how vastly my loneliness was deepened, how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed, when I found on one page A few greasy looking smears and next to them, written in soft pencil- by a beautiful girl, I could tell, whom I would never meet- Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love.

There's no talent here, this is hard work. This is an obsession. Talent does not exist, we are all equals as human beings. You could be anyone if you put in the time. You will reach the top, and that's that. I am not talented. I am obsessed.

You’re as old as the land and you’ve never heard of sarcasm?” Conor asked. Oh, I have heard of it, the monster said, putting its huge branch hands on its hips. But people usually know better than to speak it to me.

But how do you fight it?" Conor asked, his voice rough. "How do you fight all the different stuff inside?" By speaking the truth, the monster said. As you spoke it just now.

Conor looked down at his hands, finally unclenching them. "Because what I thought was so wrong." It was not wrong, the monster said, It was only a thought, one of a million. It was not an action.

The fourth man in the terrorist team was Conor Lenihan. Conor had been born in Catholic Belfast and brought up in the sectarian ways of his peers.

It was odds on they would find out one of the team had escaped the blast, and it wouldn’t be long before they knew which one. Then they would come looking for him. And Conor intended they should find him.

It is not what I want from you, Conor O’Malley, it said. It is what you want from me. “I don’t want anything from you,” Conor said. Not yet, said the monster. But you will.

Look at me, man, look at me and tell me I don't know what I'm about. I'm Conor Larkin. I'm an Irishman and I've had enough.

Does he live alone?” “Yes.” Conor stood up. “Thank you,” he said pleasantly and shot him in the head.

You know that is not true, the monster said. You know that your truth, the one that you hide, Conor O’Malley, is the thing you are most afraid of.

For all Conor Lenihan cared it could have been Osama Bin Laden who had organised the whole thing. He was simply a mercenary doing a job of work.

You be as angry as you need to be," she said. "Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Not your grandma, not your dad, no one. And if you need to break things, then by God, you break them good and hard." He couldn't look at her. He just couldn't. "And if, one day," she said, really crying now, "you look back and you feel bad for being so angry, if you feel bad for being so angry at me that you couldn't even speak to me, then you have to know, Conor, you have to know that it was okay. It was okay. That I knew. I know, okay? I know everything you need to tell me without you having to say it out loud. All right?" He still couldn't look at her. He couldn't raise his head, it felt so heavy. He was bent in two, like he was being torn right down through his middle. But he nodded.

Here is the hardest hit of all, O'Malley," Harry said. "Here is the very worst thing I can do to you." He held out his hand, as if asking for a handshake. He was asking for a handshake. Conor responded almost automatically, putting out his own hand and shaking Harry's before he even thought about what he was doing. They shook hands like two businessmen at the end of a meeting. "Goodbye, O'Malley," Harry said, looking into Conor's eyes. "I no longer see you.

You are the one who called me, Conor O’Malley, it said, looking at him seriously. You are the one with the answers to these questions.

There was once an invisible man, the monster continued, though Conor kept his eyes firmly on Harry, who had grown tired of being unseen. Conor set himself into a walk. A walk after Harry. It was not that he was actually invisible, the monster said, following Conor, the room volume dropping as they passed. It was that the people had become used to not seeing him. "Hey!" Conor called. Harry didn't turn around. Neither did Sully nor Anton, though thet were still sniggering as Conor picked up his pace. And if no one sees you, the monster said, picking up its pace, too, are you really there at all? "HEY!" Conor called loudly. The dining hall had fallen silent now, as Conor and the monster moved faster after Harry. Harry who had still not turned around. Conor reached him and grabbed him by the shoulder, twisting him round. Harry pretended to question what had happened, looking hard at Sully, acting like he was the one who'd done it. "Quit messing about," Harry said and turned away again. Turned away from Conor. And then one day the invisible man decided, the monster said, its voice ringing in Conor's ears, I will make them see me. "How?" Conor asked, breathing heavily again, not turning back to see the monster standing there, not looking at the reaction of the room to the huge monster now in the midst, though he was aware of nervous murmurs and a strange anticipation in the air. "How did the man do it?" Conor could feel the monster close behind him, knew that it was kneeling, knew that it was putting its face up to his ear to whisper into in, to tell him the rest of the story. He called, it said for a monster.

Conor O’Malley who wants to be punished,” Harry said, still stepping back, his eyes on Conor’s. “Conor O’Malley who needs to be punished. And why is that, Conor O’Malley? What secrets do you hide that are so terrible?

Victor Vigny: It is like the old fairy tale. The boy saves the princess; they fall in love. He invents a flying machine - along with his dashing teacher, of course. They get married and name thier firstborn after the aforementioned dashing teacher. Conor: I don't recall that fairy tale from the nursery. Victor Vigny: Trust me, It's a classic.

It all begins and ends in the same place, doesn't it? Conor and me in Ballyutogue. We all come home eventually.

No penséis que no habéis vivido lo bastante como para no tener una historia que contar.

I steeled myself for this interaction. Fact: I knew I could talk to people. Fact: Children were little people. Little, scary people. I took solace in the fact that if this demonstration went horribly wrong, I could probably outrun them.

Victor Vigny: A monkey glances up and sees a banana, and that's as far as he looks. A visionary looks up and sees the moon. Conor Broekhart: Which resembles a giant banana.

Never invisible again, the monster said, finally letting up, its huge branch-like fists curled tight as a clap of thunder. It turned to Conor. But there are harder things than being invisible, it said.

What did he say?” Conor asked. He said enough to bring me walking, the monster said. I know injustice when I see it.

The parson refused to believe the Apothecary could help, said the monster. When times were easy, the parson nearly destroyed the Apothecary, but when the going grew tough, he was willing to throw aside every belief if it would save his daughters. "So?" Conor said. "So would anyone! So would everyone! What did you expect him to do?

Las historias son criaturas salvajes —dijo el monstruo—. Cuando las sueltas, ¿quién sabe los desastres que pueden causar?

Conor, I could search the world for another swashbuckling scientist, but I doubt if I would find one like you.

This was a kingdom. (“What?” Conor said, looking around his backyard. “Here?”) (The monster cocked its head at him curiously. You have not heard of it?) (“Not a kingdom around here, no,” Conor said. “We don’t even have a McDonald’s.”)

I really just want to be warm yellow light that pours over everyone I love.

Conor wasn’t stupid. When they’d had the “little talk” the next day, he knew what his mum had done and why she had done it. But that didn’t take away from how much fun that night had been. How hard they’d laughed. How anything had seemed possible. How anything good could have happened to them right then and there and they wouldn’t have been surprised.

I am easily inspired by measurable progress...

Conor, haven't you ever seen a firefly before?" "Not like that. That's a flyine sixty-watt lightbulb.

If walking into the responsibility of caring for eighteen children was difficult, walking out on that responsibility was almost impossible. The children had become a constant presence, little spinning tops that splattered joy onto everyone they bumped into.

If it's bleeding then kill it, if it's not bleeding, then make it bleed and kill it

Conor shook his head. "That's a terrible story. And a cheat." "It is a true story," the monster said. "Many things that are true feel like a cheat.

This is all sounding pretty fairy tale-ish,” Conor said, suspiciously. You would not say that if you heard the screams of a man killed by a spear, said the monster. Or his cries of terror as he was torn to pieces by wolves. Now be quiet.

And I’d just like to say from the bottom of my heart, I’d like to take this chance to apologize… to absolutely nobody

There are worse things than being invisible, the monster had said, and it was right. Conor was no longer invisible. They all saw him now. But he was further away than ever.

He kept his promises to Conor, but he would break a promise to anyone else for Conor's sake, in a heartbeat.

I knew it,” Conor grumbled. “These kinds of stories always have stupid princes falling in love.” He started walking back to the house. “I thought this was going to be good.”With one swift movement, the monster grabbed Conor’s ankles in a long, strong hand and flipped him upside down, holding him in mid-air so his T-shirt rucked up and his heartbeat thudded in his head.As I was saying, said the monster.

Belief is half of all healing. Belief in the cure, belief in the future that awaits. And here was a man who lived on belief, but who sacrificed it at the first challenge, right when he needed it most. He believed selfishly and fearfully. And it took the lives of his daughters. Conor

When the monster struck a blow, Conor felt the sting of it in his own fist. When the monster held Harry's arm behind his back, Conor had felt Harry's muscles resisting. Resisting, but not winning. Because how could a boy beat a monster?

being a hero is not all its cracked up to be." - Conor Kelly

There is not always a good guy. Nor is there always a bad one. Most people are somewhere inbetween. Conor

I am everything untamed and untameable! It brought Conor up close to its eye. I am this wild earth, come for you, Conor O’Malley.

But what is a dream, Conor O'Malley? Who is to say that it is not everything else that is the dream?

If the world could remain within a frame like a painting on the wall, I think we'd see the beauty then and stand staring in awe.

A close and connected observation of nature reveals something more like a Celtic knot: a form without end or beginning. Not a system, but a synthesis.

Are you being a good boy for your mum?” Conor’s grandma pinched Conor’s cheeks so hard he swore she was going to draw blood. “He’s been very good, Ma,” Conor’s mother said, winking at him from behind his grandma, her favorite blue scarf tied around her head. “So there’s no need to inflict quite so much pain.

When everything is lonely, I can be my best friend.

Conor's grandma wasn't like other grandmas. He'd met Lily's grandma loads of times, and she was how grandmas were supposed to be: crinkly and smiley, with white hair and the whole lot. She cooked meals where she made three separate eternally boiled vegetable portions for everybody and would giggle in the corner at Christmas with a small glass of sherry and a paper crown on her head. Conor's grandma wore tailored trouser suits, dyed her hair to keep out the grey, and said things that made no sense at all, like "Sixty is the new fifty" or "Classic cars need the most expensive polish." What did that even mean? She emailed birthday cards, would argue with waiters over wine, and still had a job. Her house was even worse, filled with expensive old things you could never touch, like a clock she wouldn't even let the cleaning lady dust. Which was another thing. What kind of grandma had a cleaning lady?

I couldn't stand the waiting anymore. I couldn't stand how alone it made me feel." And a part of you wished it would just end, said the monster, even if it meant losing her. And the nightmare began. The nightmare that always ended with - "I let her go," Conor choked out. "I could have held on but I let her go." And that, the monster said, is the truth. "I didn't mean it, though!" Conor said, his voice rising. "I didn't mean to let her go! And now it's for real! Now she's going to die and it's my fault!" And that, the monster said, is not the truth at all.

British diplomats, constantly exposed to American political-ethical rhetoric, find their professional skills tested to the limits by the need to keep a straight face. For illustrations of what I mean, study the photographs of the expressions worn by Mr Douglas Hurd at any international conference involving all the Western allies.

My feet will tread soft as a deer in the forest,” said Conor, frowning with concentration. “My mind will be clear as water from the sacred well. My heart will be strong as a great oak. My spirit will spread an eagle’s wings, and fly forth. This is the way of truth.

You’re against yourself.

Today, as a result of the policy of Macmillan's Government, Great Britain presents in the United Nations the face of Pecksniff and in Katanga the face of Gradgrind.

It seemed to him that half the fun of a library was stumbling on treasures by chance... Conor, in The Library at the Edge of the World

When you have confidence in the physical side of things, you become more confident in the non-physical. You

We’re really going to ride rhinos?” asked Conor excitedly.

What happened in the nightmare was something no one else ever needed to know. Conor

There is not always a good guy. Nor is there always a bad one. Most people are somewhere in between. Conor

Conor studied the man before him. “You’re talking second chances?” The priest shrugged, matter-of-fact. “God hands them out all the time. Why not you? Why not now?

This is why I came walking, to tell you this so that you may heal. You must listen. Conor swallowed again. “I’m listening.” You do not write your life with words, the monster said. You write it with actions. What you think is not important. It is only important what you do. There

It occurred to me that part of the reason I’d seen so much debate about the year’s first sunrise, and not its last sunset, was that our beginnings always seem more important than our endings. In life, we can often control how things start. Endings are elusive and amorphous and uncertain.

To sit home, read one’s favorite paper, and scoff at the misdeeds of the men who do things is easy, but it is markedly ineffective,” he wrote. “It is what evil men count upon the good men’s doing.

There aren’t any more treatments.” “I’m sorry, son,” his mum said, tears sneaking out of her eyes now, even though she kept up her smile. “I’ve never been more sorry about anything in my life.” Conor

I didn’t mean it,” Conor said. You did, the monster said, but you also did not. Conor sniffed and looked up to its face, which was as big as a wall in front of him. “How can both be true?” Because humans are complicated beasts, the monster said. How can a queen be both a good witch and a bad witch? How can a prince be a murderer and a saviour? How can an apothecary be evil-tempered but right-thinking? How can a parson be wrong-thinking but good-hearted? How can invisible men make themselves more lonely by being seen?

It is almost winter,” said Conor quietly. “Out of winter’s darkness comes spring’s light. Out of winter’s sleep is born spring’s new life. We cannot be without hope, not when this truth is shown us year by year.

She noticed then that Conor was watching her. 'Are you going for a swim?' he asked her. 'In a while. Why don't you go down and check if it's warm enough?' 'And if it's not warm enough?' 'We'll still go in. But at least we'll know.

I wanted a national park kind of love. Something that felt different and special compared to everything else surrounding it. Some thing that was fun and inspiring. Some thing that felt like it was worth guarding and protecting forever.

We're all gonna die someday, and in between being born and then, you only have one f***ing life. If you spend more time being happy with what you've got than you do being unhappy about things you don't have, then you've cracked the secret.

What are you?” Conor asked, pulling his arms closer around himself. I am not a “what,” frowned the monster. I am a “who.” “Who are you, then?” Conor said. The monster’s eyes widened. Who am I? it said, its voice getting louder. Who am I? The

There is not always a good guy. Nor is there always a bad one. Most people are somewhere inbetween. Conor shook his head. “That’s a terrible story. And a cheat.” It is a true story, the monster said. Many things that are true feel like a cheat.

Conor blinked. Then blinked again. “You’re going to tell me stories?” Indeed, the monster said. “Well–” Conor looked around in disbelief. “How is that a nightmare?” Stories are the wildest things of all, the monster rumbled. Stories chase and bite and hunt.

And the barman asked me if I was alright? Simple little question. And i said I was. And he said he'd make me a sandwich. And I said okay. And I nearly started crying--because you know, here was someone just...And I watched him. He took two big slices off a fresh loaf and buttered them carefully, spreading it all around. I'll never forget it. And then he sliced some cheese and cooked ham and an onion out of a jar, and put it all on a plate and sliced it down the middle. And, just someone doing this for me. And putting it down in front of me. 'Get that down you, now,' he said. And then he folded up his newspaper and put on his jacket, and went off on his break. And there was another barman then. And I took this sandwich up and I could hardly swallow it, because of the lump in my throat. But I ate i tall down because someone I didn't know had done this for me. Such a small thing. But a huge thing. In my condition.

If nature has a soul, it feels like it must be bound up in the bark and sap of our forests. There, older, wiser sentinels stand in silent judgment. Not just the ancient sequoias and redwoods—even regular pine and birch trees outlast us. Every tree is a witness tree—they see how we spend our time on earth, what we take and what we give.

Olivia watched him through a blur of tears, despising the futility of it. For there was nothing she could say to comfort a man whose family was long dead; there was no balm to heal wounds that scored a man's soul; and there was no way to make a man believe in the ties that bind.

Meilin … eilin … lin.” But now it didn’t sound like her father. It sounded like Zerif. It sounded like Shane. It sounded like Olvan. It sounded like Conor. It sounded like Abeke. It sounded like Rollan. It sounded like people she knew, and people she’d lost, and even people she hadn’t met.

La respuesta es que no importa lo que pienses —dijo el monstruo—, porque la mente entrará en contradicción consigo misma cien veces al día. Tu mente se creerá las mentiras piadosas pero conoce también las verdades que duelen y que hacen que esas mentiras sean necesarias. Y tu mente te castigará por creer ambas cosas. —Pero ¿cómo luchas contra eso? —preguntó Conor con voz ronca—. ¿Cómo luchas contra tus contradicciones internas? —Diciendo la verdad —respondió el monstruo—

That’s a load of crap!” Conor shouted. “He didn’t need to kill her. The people were behind him. They would have followed him anyway.” The justifications of men who kill should always be heard with skepticism, said the monster. And so the injustice that I saw, the reason that I came walking, was for the queen, not the prince.

They're just stupid berries. Woo-hoo, so scary. Oh, please, please, save me from the berries!" The monster looked at him quizzically. "How strange", it said. "The words you say tell me you are scared of the berries, but your actions seem to suggest otherwise. "You're as old as the land and you've never heard of sarcasm?" Conor asked.

And that, the monster said, is not the truth at all.

The game ain't always fair and that's the thing, though. You can play your heart out, everybody don't get a ring though.

There is not always a good guy. Nor is there always a bad one. Most people are somewhere in between. Conor shook his head. "That's a terrible story. And a cheat." It is a true story, the monster said. Many things that are true feel like a cheat. Kingdoms get the princes they deserve, farmers' daughters die for no reason, and sometimes witches merit saving. Quite often, actually. You'd be surprised.

You know how the sea grinds down stones into sand, over years and years and years? Nobody ever sees it, it happens so slowly. And then at last the sand is so fine you can sift it in your fingers. Losing Dad is like being worn away by a force that's so powerful nothing could resist it. We are like stones, being changed into something completely different. If you looked casually at me and Mum and Conor now, you might think we were the same people as we were a year ago, except that we're a year older. But we are not the same people. We've changed where no one can see it, inside our minds and our feelings. I didn't want us to change, but I can't stop it.

Likewise, Nothing is generally what prospectors find. Nothing is in the head of politicians. “We must try to understand oft-misunderstood philosophers who actually do Nothing, think Nothing, and say Nothing, because he who does Nothing can do Nothing wrong. He who thinks of Nothing day and night plants no evil and Nothing offends no one.” “I want you to defend me if I need a lawyer,” Conor said. “On what charges?” Theo asked. “Nothing,” Conor said. “I’ll have you out in no time flat.

He imagined her upstairs in her room, lying in bed with her hair spread across the pillow, that nightgown with the pearl buttons down the front tangled around her legs, nothing beneath the delicate fabric but her softness and warmth. Desire pulsed through his body, hungry and hot and needy. It was unbearable to want her with such intensity, unthinkable to need her with such desperate longing, dangerous to believe that she could somehow keep the demons away. He did not want to need her, for in need, there was dependence. He could not trust, for in trust, there was betrayal. Better never to see heaven at all than to catch a glimpse of it, grab for it, and lose it. He went to his room. He slept with his demons, and he woke alone.

The answer is that it does not matter what you think, the monster said, because your mind will contradict itself a hundred times each day. You wanted her to go at the same time you were desperate for me to save her. Your mind will believe comforting lies while also knowing the painful truths that make those lies necessary. And your mind will punish you for believing both. “But how do you fight it?” Conor asked, his voice rough. “How do you fight all the different stuff inside?” By speaking the truth, the monster said.

Recently, we've started to think more about how the bright lights from our screens are affecting our bodies. But I wonder how the lights from our cities might be affecting our souls. As people, we arrived on the planet with a "dark mode" pre-installed, but for the past century, we've been turning it off. In an effort to see our own world more clearly, we have obscured our view of the other worlds and—quite possibly—of the divine.

Because humans are complicated beasts, the monster said. How can a queen be both a good witch and a bad witch? How can a prince be a murderer and a saviour? How can an apothecary be evil-tempered but right-thinking? How can a parson be wrong-thinking but good-hearted? How can invisible men make themselves more lonely by being seen? “I don’t know,” Conor shrugged, exhausted. “Your stories never made any sense to me.” The answer is that it does not matter what you think, the monster said, because your mind will contradict itself a hundred times each day. You wanted her to go at the same time you were desperate for me to save her. Your mind will believe comforting lies while also knowing the painful truths that make those lies necessary. And your mind will punish you for believing both. “But how do you fight it?” Conor asked, his voice rough. “How do you fight all the different stuff inside?” By speaking the truth, the monster said. As you spoke it just now. Conor

The modern conflicts that occur on Irish soil today are symptoms of the horrors of the past, the record of which is embedded in the subconscious minds of Ireland’s traumatized inhabitants. The Irish people (like many in the world) are for the most part infirm in mind and spirit. Those who have brought such infirmity about, dance on their desks and revel at their success. The Irish people have suffered untold misery through no fault of their own, but because they had what Rome coveted for her own power, a Savior, a Bible, and a spiritual sovereignty...England was but a tool used by Rome in her striving to attain her end, namely, recognition as the sole source of the Divine Authority on earth – Conor MacDari

The Papacy was not happy when Columbus relentlessly began petitioning the royals of Spain and England for their favor, seeking funds for Western expeditions. At first they tried to dissuade him but later, fearing he would find patronage and proceed with his venture, they conceded and financially backed his journey of discovery, making sure to put henchmen all about him to watch his every move. They knew, all too well, that America had already been colonized by Scots-Irish mariners and that the far away country contained Irish Stellar temples and Megalithic sites filled with treasure. They had their minds set on pillaging this wealth and making sure the relics of Ireland’s presence in the New World would be attributed to, and regarded as, yet another “unsolvable mystery.” Nowadays, however, when underground chambers of places such as Ohio’s “Serpent Mound” are excavated, all manner of Irish artifacts are brought out. The aboriginal tribes of South and North America were initially elated to see men such as Columbus and Pizarro. They erroneously believed them to be the godmen of old returning to their shores. They could not imagine, not even in their wildest dreams or visions, what kind of mayhem and destruction these particular “gods” were preparing to unleash upon them. According to Conor MacDari, there are thousands of Megalithic sites throughout America of Irish origin. In the state of Ohio there are over five thousand such mounds while in Michigan and Wisconsin there exists over ten thousand sites. None of these sites are of Native Indian origin and, therefore, little academic attention is paid to them. The Native Indians admit that in all cases except two, tribes understood a common language known as Algonquin. This word is Gaelic and means “noble family” or “noble ones.” Hubert Howe Bancroft, in his book Native Races mentions an Indian chief who said his tribe taught their children but one language until they reached eleven years of age, and that language was Irish Gaelic.