Mad Sweeney Quotes

I only met Mad Sweeney twice, alive," he said. "The first time I thought he was a world-class jerk with the devil in him. The second time I thought he was a major fuckup and I gave him the money to kill himself. He showed me a coin trick I don't remember how to do, gave me some bruises, and claimed he was a leprechaun. Rest in peace, Mad Sweeney.

If you can't eat it, drink it, smoke it, or snort it... then f*ck it!

I need to know how you did it it. I did it, said Sweeney, with the air of one confiding a huge secret, witch panache and style. That's how I did it. (Shadow & Mad Sweeney)

was probably mad at all of them. She wondered

somewhere in the middle of the second glass that Mad Sweeney himself began to throw both details and irrelevancies into Ibis’s narrative (“…such a girl she was, with breasts cream-colored and spackled with freckles, with the tips of them the rich reddish pink of the sunrise on a day when it’ll be bucketing down before noon but glorious again by supper…”) and then Sweeney was trying, with both hands, to explain the history of the gods in Ireland, wave after wave of them as they came in from Gaul and from Spain and from every damn place, each wave of them transforming the last gods into trolls and fairies and every damn creature until Holy Mother Church herself arrived and every god in Ireland was transformed into a fairy or a saint or a dead king without so much as a by-your-leave… Mr.

No, he is not mad. He is very bad. I am certain he is totally healthy. He has a very peculiar personality. Not that of a KGB officer. He’s different, sadistic, not thinking about other people, not even the Russian people, only himself. He has these predecessors like Hitler and Stalin. We can say they did bad things but that they didn’t do them because a voice told them to do it. They were evildoers. They were sadistic people. But they weren’t insane.

I am a sixty-three-year-old war reporter. I have covered wars and madness in Rwanda, Burundi, apartheid South Africa, the Romanian revolution, former Yugoslavia, Iraq, Syria, Albania, Chechnya, Afghanistan and Zimbabwe. I have seen babies with hacked limbs and an old man with his eyes blown in by an artillery shell and people with their lungs sucked inside out and a man with his brain sliced with a machete – and there is nothing worse than watching kids smile in war, watching the aristocracy of the human soul. It makes me cry – and cry I do.

But as for me, it is good to be near God…. —Psalm 73:28 (NIV) My friend Brent lives next door and was known throughout our neighborhood as a mild-mannered, quiet, thoughtful person. This all came to an abrupt end one morning when he watched his only daughter suffer a terrible tragedy. I don’t even want to reveal what that tragedy was, but suffice it to say that Brent’s daughter was hurt more than any teenager should ever be—and Brent was furious with God. It was shocking to see. Sitting in his living room, Brent explained bitterly, “The deal is over. God is supposed to love us, and I don’t see any love left.” He was mad, but his anger masked a very deep sadness and sense of loss. What does someone say in this sort of situation? I had no idea, even though I had read the books and articles and heard the sermons that explained how God is love and is ready and waiting to love us, even, and especially, when awful things happen. But what do you say to your friend who already knows all of that? I just listened…and listened for the better part of a year. At the end of that year, I began to see Brent’s daughter heal. And just when I was about to suggest to Brent what I’d wanted to suggest earlier—that God is good and wants all that is good for us even though this world often offers up what is painful—he beat me to it. Today, Brent and his daughter and God are all back on the same page. Of course, they always were. I praise You, God, for Your enduring presence, even when I am angry or frustrated with You. —Jon Sweeney Digging Deeper: Ps 107; Rom 8:28; 2 Pt 3:9

Sometimes rambling could almost make things better, ease my quickening heartbeat with its own flurry of madness, brush aside the tendrils of the night in an assemblage of scattered words. Even if they were the wrong words.