O'toole Quotes

When did I realize I was God? Well, I was praying and I suddenly realized I was talking to myself.

I will not be a common man. I will stir the smooth sands of monotony. I do not crave security. I wish to hazard my soul to opportunity.

I'm not working-class: I come from the criminal classes.

I'm wondering, if there was something you wanted, had wanted for some time, what would you do about it?" "If I've wanted it, why don't I have it?" "Because you haven't made any real effort to get it as yet." "And why haven't I?" He arched his sandy brows. "Am I slow or just stupid?" Brenna thought it over, decided he couldn't know he'd just insulted his first born. Then she nodded slowly. "Maybe a bit of both in this particular case." Relieved to have the conversation turn to a safe area, he gave her a fierce grin. "Then I'd stop being slow and I'd stop being stupid and I'd take good aim at what I wanted and not dawdle about. Because when an O'Toole takes aim, by Jesus, he hits his mark. That, she knew, was true enough. And was certainly expected. "But maybe you're a bit nervous and not quite sure of your skill in this area." "Girl, if you don't go after what you want, you'll never have it. If you don't ask, the answer's always no. If you don't step forward, you're always in the same place.

I am human, all too bloody human.

One day when I was praying, it suddenly occurred to me thatI was talking to myself.

It’s wondering … always wondering and never understanding: how can I be so smart and still feel so stupid?

our society is unequal, and bodily difference is used to justify that inequality.

I do not choose to be a common man…it is my right to be uncommon—if I can…I seek opportunity—not security…I want to take the calculated risk; to dream and to build, to fail and to succeed… to refuse to barter incentive for a dole… I prefer the challenges of life to the guaranteed existence, the thrill of fulfillment to the stale calm of utopias….

Do.As.Thou.Wilt.

The script sits in front of you. The writer’s translated into ink what is in his spirit and his soul and his mind. Bum. [Thumps table.] I come along, I pick it up, and the ink goes into my eyes, into my mind, into my body, flows around and that part starts to inhabit me. And I know a good part when I see one.

I thought it was just a longing for you, and that would be enough for both of us. I do long for you, but it's not enough and it's not all. Oh, this is where I want t be.

One more cockeyed optimist thrown under the reality bus.

This may be the last stage of imperialism–having appropriated everything else from its colonies, the dead empire appropriates the pain of those it has oppressed.

I found him perhaps the least terrifying man I've ever met in the theater—because at first glance I could see through him and he could see through me, and he knew that I knew that he knew. Look, love, I've been bullied all my life by bigger experts than Larry Olivier, I can assure you, and he's just got to get in line.

Nothing is written unless you decide to write it - Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia

Michael O'Toole had no difficulty recognizing which questions in life should be answered by physics and which ones by religion.

if I was to be an actor, I would love to be like peter o'toole.

Can we go back to the part where you're in love with me?" "No, because I'm not anymore. I've come to my senses." "That's a damn shame, that is. You'll have to wait here a minute. There's something I need from inside." "I'll not stand out here. I'm going home." "I'll only come after you, Brenna," he called over his shoulder as he walked to the door.

The experience of life from within any group has to be described by members of that group.

And maybe, just maybe, I’d be able to build an authentic, curious, passionate life on the beautifully atypical Belle Curve.

Agency refers to the individual – to the choices she makes. Structure refers to society – to the context that produced the individual, and in which she continues to act. Which of these factors most determines the person I am and the behaviours I perform?

Even within our culture, there are times when breasts stop being read as bouncy sex balls: when women are breastfeeding, there's pretty wide acceptance of the fact that shouting 'phwoar' is bad form.

I've never looked for women. When I was a teenager, perhaps. But they are looking for us, and we [men] must learn that very quickly. They decide. We just turn up. Never mind the superficialities – tall and handsome and all that. Just turn up

Sandra O'Toole walked back to the nurses' station, remembering what she alone had seen. Kelly's face turning so white that her first reaction to it was that he must be in shock, then the tumult behind her as she reached for her patient -- but then what? It wasn't like the first time at all. Kelly's face has transformed itself. Only an instant, like opening a door into some other place, and she'd seen something she had never imagined. Something very old and feral and ugly. The eyes not wide, but focused on something she could not see. The pallor of his face not that of shock, but of rage. His hands balled briefly into fists of quivering stone. And then his face had changed again. There had been comprehension to replace the blind, killing rage, and what she'd seen next was the most dangerous sight she had ever beheld, though she knew not why. Then the door closed, Kelly's eyes shut, and when he opened them, his face was unnaturally serene. The complete sequence had not taken four seconds, she realized, all of it while Rosen and Douglas had been scuffling against the wall. He'd passed from horror to rage to understanding -- then to concealment, but what had come in between comprehension and disguise was the most frightening thing of all. What had she seen in the face of this man? It took her a moment to answer the question. Death was what she'd seen. Controlled. Planned. Disciplined. But it was still Death, living in the mind of a man.

Men who struggle with deadlines or disorganization more frequently find the socially acceptable support of executive assistants, wives, or mothers … they are the “absent-minded professors,” while there is no word for emotional, discombobulated women.

Out of crisis comes clarity

I can't stand light. I hate weather. My idea of heaven is moving from one smoke-filled room to another.

I can’t be her knight. But I can be her king.

And the reason parenting is becoming increasingly crucial is that we now live in a world that is more fucked up than Peter O’Toole on his birthday.

I don’t just want to make porn with Logan O’Toole; I want to make a life.

When did I realize I was God? Well, I was praying and I suddenly realized I was talking to myself.” Peter O’Toole

I should bend you over this table right now and teach you a fucking lesson on respect.

Like a chameleon … [those with a diffuse sense of self] change who they are depending on their circumstances and what they think others want from them.

Alexithymia includes the following: • difficulty identifying different types of feelings • difficulty expressing feelings • difficulty recognizing facial cues in others

My life is littered with copies of Moby Dick.

Celestine had been born Maggie O'Toole, a name which Mrs. Pett stoutly refused to countenance in any maid of hers.

Why, then, were there no photographs of Margaret Thatcher and Helmut Kohl holding hands at the Brandenburg Gate to match the pictures of Kohl and François Mitterrand at Verdun in 1984? Because Thatcher literally carried in her handbag maps showing German expansion under the Nazis. This was a mental cartography that English conservatism could not transcend – the map of a Europe that may no longer exist in reality but within which its imagination remains imprisoned. ‘Europe,’ Barnett writes, ‘moved on from the Second World War and Britain didn’t.’ One might go so far as to say that England never got over winning the war.

Make-up shouldn't signify frivolity any more than a closely shaved chin or a well-trimmed beard. The problem is not skirts, stilettos or other symbols of femininity; rather, it's what the symbols of femininity mean in our sexist culture.

When Molly O'Toole was looking at the colored pictures in Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle's big dictionary and just happened to be eating a candy cane at the same time and drooled candy cane juice on the colored pictures of gems and then forgot and shut the book so the pages all stuck together, Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle didn't say, "Such a careless little girl can never ever look at the colored pictures in my dictionary again." Nor did she say, "You must never look at books when you are eating." She said, "Let's see, I think we can steam those pages apart, and then we can wipe the stickiness off with a little soap and water, like this-now see, it's just as good as new. There's nothing as cozy as a piece of candy and a book.

There are few things as tragic as when we tacitly agree to the notion that our unchangeable truth is somehow invalid. Less than. Broken. Wrong. That pretending is necessary for professional opportunity or personal acceptance. I’ve done it a million times in ways large and small, and I can tell you this: trying to hide in plain sight is frustrating, disorienting, isolating—an exhausting game of (only possible) short-term gains in exchange for very-certain long-term exclusion. When we agree to play, we not only hide and cast doubt upon our experiences. We’ve willingly participated in the invalidation of ourselves.

Life, they say, is about the journey, not the destination. Well, whoever they are, they are very clearly neurotypical. For spectrum minds, too much choice will halt you in your steps. Waypoints and destinations are the only indications of trajectory.

When we feel either understimulated or overstimulated, we physically cannot reason, listen, or think about anything else. We can’t just ignore it. We can’t learn. We can’t be spontaneous or fun. We can’t rationalize well. And we can’t hear others’ needs, let alone be certain we understand our own. It’s like trying to see your own reflection in a pot of boiling water. Nothing is clear.

Largely, it’s what we usually refer to as sympathy or compassion—feeling delighted or afraid or concerned or thrilled for someone, doing what we can to alleviate any suffering, and securing them in love. That’s emotional empathy. And that we’ve got in spades.

What’s it like to be us? Too much. We feel too much. React too much. Say too much. Need too much. So says the world. I say: the world is wrong. There is an exquisite trade-off for a life so differently led: complex imagination, limitless curiosity, profound compassion, and restless independent thought. They are the core of everything I am. They will be responsible for whatever legacy I leave behind.

So the first time I ever came into contact with O’Toole was at one of these very gatherings. I remember it well because I’d just punched Harold Pinter down a flight of stairs. Oh yes, I’m afraid so. No long dramatic pauses this time, Harold; he got one right on the side of the jaw. Wham!

They’re just different in brains that are neurologically different, regardless of which way the comparison is made. Or, as Charles Addams put it, “Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.” No matter who’s the fly and who’s the spider, it still makes sense.

Even as a game of chance, however, Brexit is especially odd. It is a surreal casino in which the high-rollers are playing for pennies at the blackjack tables while the plebs are stuffing their life savings into the slot machines. For those who can afford risk, there is very little on the table; for those who cannot, entire livelihoods are at stake. The backbench anti-Brexit Tory MP Anna Soubry rose to her feet in the Commons in July 2018, eyed her Brexiteer colleagues and let fly: ‘Nobody voted to be poorer, and nobody voted Leave on the basis that somebody with a gold-plated pension and inherited wealth would take their jobs away from them.’ But if that’s not what people voted for, it is emphatically what they got: if the British army on the Western Front were lions led by donkeys, Brexit is those who feel they have nothing to lose led by those who will lose nothing either way.

Heightened memories of past threats will increase the wish to disappear, to hide, to avoid the conversation, or just to flat out quit (“flight”). Those same memories—of feeling like a failure, unwanted, or hurt—also make us quicker to anger, and with greater intensity. That’s our shield. We are trying to immediately stop what feels like a threat.

An Englishman will burn his bed to catch a flea’ – TURKISH PROVERB

You may be shocked by how fragile information is, and I fear it is only getting worse. Each transmission of a quote can sometimes seem to produce cracks in the truth.

When you’re in the eye of the tornado, the world looks blurry—especially when you’re working hard to avoid clear vision.” Mona

What I know about love, you could put in your eye and not impair your vision.

Any party that combined swingers and farm animals had me worried. I tried not to think about the possibilities.

around

Stengel admitted. “I’m not going to make any decision until I have to give the umpire my batting order. Then you’ll know as well as I.” The next afternoon, Casey resisted

In the struggle for survival, the cutest win out at the expense of the less cute because they appeal more to celebrities and, through them, to a live television audience.

I am a son of David and Jeanine O’Toole. I am a son of Earth. And you, you bug-eyed bastards, cannot have my mind.

trying to be perfect is the most imperfect goal imaginable. It’s

Adjectives are opinions. Feelings. They are not absolutes.

In a bitter paradox, Ireland was an agrarian economy that was actually not much good at producing food.

No prospect, no prospect, little prospect – the future was blank and bleak. As the Irish joke had it at the time, the wolf was at the door, howling to get out.

In the hurry through which known and strange things pass, the strange things were sometimes very well known and the known things were often deeply strange.

How’r’ye, son. I’m Detective Sergeant Declan O’Toole, and that there’ –he nodded towards the back seat –‘is Detective James Mooney. Do you live in there?’ He pointed towards our house.

It was a lie, of course, and she was prepared to confess it to her priest. But she’d be damned if she’d tell him she’d been playing with his music. Her pride was worth the penance. He felt a quiver in his heart that he took for sympathy. “There, Brenna darling. Have you gone and fallen in love on me?” She jerked, whirled, gaped at him. He was watching her with such—such bloody affection, such patience and sympathy. She could have beaten him black and blue. Instead, she just shoved clear of him and snatched up her toolbox. “Shawn Gallagher, you are truly a great idiot of a man.” With her nose in the air and her tools clanking, she stalked out. He only shook his head, then went back to his cleaning up. With that little quiver around his heart again, he wondered who it was that O’Toole had set her sights on. Whoever, Shawn thought, slamming a cupboard door just a little too forcefully, the man had better be worthy of her.

The bitterly ironic phrase ‘Love, Honour and Carry Water’, parodying the wedding vows to love, honour and obey, was used as an advertising slogan by a supplier of water pumps in the early 1960s.

Over the years, they’ve all felt, believed, or said that I was too smart to be so … irresponsible, clueless, inept. And when you hear something often enough from enough people in enough places, you believe it. I certainly did. No matter how hard I’ve tried to dot each i and cross each t, I’ve so often managed to screw up the simple stuff with no better idea of how to prevent another disaster. Humiliated, hurt, and lonely, I felt caught in a hamster wheel, futilely running as hard as I could without actually making progress. Defending my heart again. My character again. Hopelessly explaining myself, again, until even I became sick of my voice.

And me? I’m overestimated just as often because I’m so loquacious. What looks like “high-functioning” is really just “highly camouflaged.” My challenges aren’t less real. Nor are they less autistic. They’re just less obvious.

Artemus Ward: Respected Sir—My wife was afflicted with the pipsywipsy in the head for nearly eight years. The doctors all gave her up. But in a fortunate moment she went to one of your lectures, and commenced recovering very rapidly. She is now in perfect health. We like your lectures very much. Please send me a box of them. They are purely vegetable. Send me another five dollar bill and I’ll write you another certificate twice as long as this. Yours,

Militant nationalism needed regular transfusions of young blood to keep it alive, because it led a kind of vampiric half-life, imaginatively and emotionally draining but not visible in any mirror held up to contemporary Irish reality.

The real irony of all this talk about muted sense of self is that the very word autism comes from the Greek root autos, meaning “self” (as in “autograph” and “automobile”). We are self-referenced, certainly. It is so hard to understand others’ experiences of the world that being able to distinguish our wants, desires, and thoughts from anyone else’s is almost impossible. Our minds feel transparent. Not because we have so much sense of self. But because we have so little.

They opened a place in Irishness for the diasporas that were, in many ways, the truest products of its history. It brought home the reality that had been obscured in the idea of emigration as tragedy and shame: we are a hyphenated people.

In the mid-1950s, there were 476,000 pupils in the primary education system, but just 83,000 in secondary and vocational schools, suggesting that more than 80 per cent dropped out of formal education at fourteen, the legal school leaving age.

I once knew a fellow who committed robbery with violence, and he was sentenced to a long prison stretch and 12 strokes of the cat. He'd been injured during the robbery, so they put him in hospital to make him better so that they could make him worse. During the administration of the cat, he fainted after six strokes, and the doctor put him in hospital again. And he got very friendly with the nurses and the doctors, and after a while they got him well enough to go back and take the next six strokes. I saw him afterward and I said: "Oh, Jesus—that bloody law, that bloody judge!" But he said: "I don't want the fellow who made the law, and I don't want the fellow who passed the sentence. All I want is the fellow who held the bloody whip.

That had been her plan, he decided. The devious witch. She’d planted the seed in his brain, stirred up his loins, as he was only a man, after all, and now she could torment him just by being in the same vicinity. Well, two could play this game. Rather than waiting for Darcy to pick up the orders, he carried them out himself. Just to show Brenna O’Toole that she didn’t trouble him in the least. The perverse creature didn’t even glance his way as he swung into the pub and wound his way through the crowd to the tables.

Being on the spectrum does not, in any way, mean that a woman or a girl is destined to be in an abusive relationship. Not at all. On the contrary, being aware that she is different and of the ways that she is different is the cornerstone to knowing how to empower her. What to teach her to watch for. What to teach her to cherish. To know, above all, that yes, like everyone in the world, there are things she can do and ways she must grow to be the best friend and partner she can be. And before she looks outward, she needs to know herself. Needs to know that without exception, she is believed. That even when her perspective is limited or her reactions feel extreme to others, they are entirely authentic and real for her. That we will honor and love her for them, not in spite of them. More than a promise, that’s a responsibility.

I didn’t tolerate awful things because I was needy or insecure. I was needy and insecure because I’d had to tolerate awful things. If you believe you are worthy and strong, you will live up to that truth. If you believe you are unworthy of love or happiness, you will live up to that truth, too.

The most common hit I get is the cringeworthy “You’re autistic? Well, you must be very high-functioning.” Sigh. I understand what they’re trying to say. Really, I do. They mean to be kind. The implication is “I don’t see many—if any—of the clearly debilitating characteristics I associate with autism when I talk to you. So, good on you. You’re not bad off!” Only that’s not a compliment at all. It’s a comparison based on the premise that “autistic” is an insult. A stigma. Or at least a bad thing. Because the only reason someone thinks of me as “high-functioning” is by holding me up to someone who is no more or less autistic—just more obviously challenged—and deciding that they are “lower-functioning.” Really, it’s no different than saying, “Oh! Well, good for you. You’re not too ugly. That gal over there? She’s royally ugly.” Lack of understanding tied up with a bow of condescension.

Impulsivity and a tendency toward perseveration but away from reciprocity lead us to dominate the conversation, redirect the topic back toward our favorite, and interrupt other people frequently. Our limited theory of mind makes it difficult to register when we’re boring or running off those around us—and executive function differences make it incredibly difficult to stop or redirect even when we do. As so often happens, we confuse attention for affection, prioritize accuracy over pleasantry, and instead of interesting and charming, we’ve managed to convey ourselves as self-centered and one-dimensional. Which

I would either head to the playground alone or sit beside her and read—which she said “looked weird.” Though she couldn’t know, those words hurt more than anything else. Feeling that we have let down our parents is a pain anyone can understand. But feeling that one’s innate self is a letdown just slays you.

Even in an absence of major incidents, the residue of “little t traumas” accumulates: bullying, educational and professional uncertainty, emotional manipulation, discrepancies between what we perceive or express and what others see or express, and gaslighting (being convinced that mistreatment is the invention of one’s own mind) make it difficult to imagine—much less establish—healthy interpersonal boundaries or a sense of where “I begin and you end.” If others’ reactions are our main source of determining who and how we are, and if, as Dr. Salters-Pedneault asserts, those reactions have been unpredictable and/or scary, we are literally without a framework within which to develop a strong sense of identity

Mark Twain, Albert Einstein, Marilyn Monroe, Winston Churchill, Dorothy Parker, and Yogi Berra are quotation superstars. Personas of this type are so vibrant and attractive that they become hosts for quotations they never uttered. A remark formulated by a lesser-known figure is attached to a famous host. The relationship is symbiotic and often enhances the popularity of both the host and the quotation.

Her decision to do so – when she had a working majority in Parliament – was not pure vanity. It was the inevitable result of the völkisch rhetoric she had adopted when she told her first Tory Party conference as leader that ‘if you believe you’re a citizen of the world, you’re a citizen of nowhere’, openly evoking the far-right (and Stalinist) trope of ‘rootless cosmopolitans’ who did not deserve citizenship.

Scans showed that each autistic girl’s brain behaved more like that of a typical boy of the same age, which, compared to typical girls, has reduced activity in regions normally associated with socializing. The brain-activity measures of autistic girls would not be considered “autistic” in a boy. Instead, the brain of a girl with autism may be more like the brain of a typical boy than that of a boy with autism.

First, intelligence is indeed correlated with how long individuals live. One study found that each additional IQ point, such as 107 versus 106, was linked with a 1 percent reduction in the relative risk of death (O’Toole & Stankov, 1992). This means that having an IQ 15 points above average (115 as opposed to 100) would decrease your mortality risk by 15 percent. Second, IQ is also linked with sublethal injuries, which themselves can hurt an individual’s inclusive fitness. In the modern world, those with lower IQs are more likely to drown; get into bicycle, motorcycle, and car accidents; become injured through explosions, falling objects, and knives; and even be hit by lightning (Gottfredson, 2007). Although no individual cause, considered alone, is strongly linked with IQ, when you add them all up, they cumulate to an increased risk of injury and death.

Not to worry, Phillip,” Father O’Toole said. “I was just inquiring as to what authority they—” He stopped abruptly, jumping forward as the wall phone came unhinged behind him, dangling by a corner screw. “Huh,” Gil pondered. “Look at that.” “What happened?” Father O’Toole asked. “The phone fell,” Gil answered. “Well, naturally! I’m not blind, young man. I’m asking how the phone fell!” “I blame gravity,” Gil offered. (Excerpt from Whisper of Light)

It was not about physical strength, Wit reminded himself. It was 90 percent mental, 10 percent physical. That's what the SEAL instructors were looking for: men and women who could disregard the pleadings of the body. Pain was nothing, sleep was nothing. What was chaffed skin, wrecked muscles, bleeding sores? The body chooses to be sore. The body chooses to be exhausted. But the SEAL mind rejects it. The SEAL mind commands the body, not the other way around.

Maybe we’re feeling left out or defective, ashamed or insecure. The feelings get too big and … for many of us, the fix is to binge on treasure troves of sugar and fat: pizza, ice cream, cookies, cheese, chocolate. For a little while, the chemical relief numbs out the hurt. Hurt? Worry? It’s all shoved deep down beneath layers of chips or donuts. Hidden. Out of sight and out of mind. Until the chemical buzz begins to wear off … and it turns out that the feelings never went away. They’re still here. And worse, now there’s self-loathing and shame to add to the mix. So we punish ourselves … until the hurt gets too big, and the cycle starts again. For those of us who starve ourselves, the story isn’t much different. We’re still trying to escape overwhelming feelings—of being a fraud, not good enough, unworthy, a failure. Instead of indulging in cover-up chaos, undereaters (like I was) discover relief—even a sense of power—in artificial control.

This desire to experience the vicarious thrills of humiliation is possible only in a country that did not know what national humiliation is really like. But the problem with wish-fulfilment is that your wishes might end up being fulfilled. In the Brexit negotiations, the idea of national humiliation moved from fiction to reality. There was a strange ecstasy of shame: ‘Britain faces a terrible choice: between the humiliation of a deal dictated by Brussels; and the chaos of crashing out of the EU

This is one possible answer to the deflationary sensation so perfectly captured in a question mark in Jane Gardam’s novel of the dissolution of the Raj, Old Filth: ‘When empires end, there’s often a dazzling finale – then—?’31 Well, perhaps empires don’t quite end when you think they do. Perhaps they have a final moment of zombie existence. This may be the last stage of imperialism – having appropriated everything else from its colonies, the dead empire appropriates the pain of those it has oppressed.

you’ve thrilled yourself with these dark imaginings you end with the ultimate in wish-fulfilment: the EU is a front for a German cabal and this will save Brexit. It is hard to overstate the extent to which Brexit depended on the idea of who really runs the EU: German car manufacturers. For some of those at the top of the Labour Party, the idea of the EU as a mere front for the bosses and moguls of Europe was a reason to be secretly pleased that Brexit would allow Britain to escape their clutches and build socialism in one country.

Conrad had gotten his ambassadorship by being a big bundler and raising a lot of money for the previous president. He reminded Harvath of Peter O’Toole in Lawrence of Arabia. In addition to being a thorough Arabist who thought he knew the region better than anyone else—along with what America’s foreign policy absolutely should be—his hair was too blond, his teeth were too white, and his skin was too tan for a man of his age and stature. Harvath chalked a certain amount of that up to his parents’ having named their male child Leslie.

I can’t help but think of one of my favorite moments in any Pixar movie, when Anton Ego, the jaded and much-feared food critic in Ratatouille, delivers his review of Gusteau’s, the restaurant run by our hero Remy, a rat. Voiced by the great Peter O’Toole, Ego says that Remy’s talents have “challenged my preconceptions about fine cooking … [and] have rocked me to my core.” His speech, written by Brad Bird, similarly rocked me—and, to this day, sticks with me as I think about my work. “In many ways, the work of a critic is easy,” Ego says. “We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations. The new needs friends.

A Council of Education had been established in 1954 to consider the possible reforms of second-level education, but it sat so long that its members began to die off before it could issue a report.11 When it finally did report in 1960 (the report was not published until 1962), it remarked contentedly of secondary schools that ‘The dominant purpose of their existence is the inculcation of religious ideals and values. This central influence, which gives unity and harmony to all the subjects of the curriculum, is outside the purview of the State…

As he confessed in 2002, ‘Some of my most joyous hours have been spent in a state of semi-incoherence, composing foam-flecked hymns of hate to the latest Euro-infamy: the ban on the prawn cocktail flavour crisp.’20 The fact that there was no ban on the prawn cocktail flavour crisp (it is still freely available over the counter) was no impediment to the foam-flecked hymns of hate. On the contrary, being pure fiction made the story beautifully elastic. Like the tale of Marina’s toast, this tiny seed of grievance could blossom into a monstrous oppression.

Cutting. Starving. Compulsive exercising. Drinking. Drugs. Hair pulling. Skin picking. These are not attention-grabbing strategies, or else why would we, who employ them, work so very hard to keep our behaviors secret? They are evidence of poor coping skills. Of terrible anxiety. Of invalidation and loneliness—and shame. Manifestations of anxiety and cognitive rigidity to the point of epidemic levels. Why? It’s all about relief. About trying to escape from your own feelings and experiences of the world that those of us on the spectrum are constantly told are wrong.

His second expedition in 1845 was deeply Brexitlike. As Barczewski explains, it was undertaken in a spirit of blithe optimism: ‘Nothing could be simpler. But the plan ignored the fact that 500 miles (800 km) of the voyage were unmapped, meaning that the actual distance that a ship needed to travel might prove much longer as it picked its way through ice and the Arctic archipelago. This had not mattered in the imaginations of the journey’s planners.’4 If this sounds awfully familiar to anyone who has watched the course of Brexit’s voyage from ‘nothing could be simpler’ to getting lost in unmapped wastelands, it may be because the same attitudes have been at work.

Ms. O’Toole?” My Nextel push-to-talk vibrated at my hip. “Are you coming?” I grabbed the device and pushed the direct-connect button to shout. “What?” I pressed the thing to my ear as I tried to hear. “Ma’am, this is Sergio at the front desk. The doctor’s with our naked guy. He’s fine—apparently sleeping off a bender. But we got another problem—some guy in Security by the name of Dane is insisting we call the paramedics just to be on the safe side.” I stared at Lyda Sue’s picture on the television, my mind unable to process what I saw. The video switched to the police and a body covered with a white cloth, one delicate hand dangling from the stretcher as they loaded it into the back of an ambulance. Nobody was in a hurry. “Ma’am,

A perfect birthday poem called ‘When You Are Old.’” Everyone chortled, and Eoin looked confused. “Are you old, Mother?” he asked. “No, darling boy. I’m ageless,” I answered. Everyone laughed again, but the O’Toole sisters urged Thomas on, pleading for the poem. Thomas stood, and with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slightly hunched, he began. “When you are old and grey and full of sleep . . .” Thomas enunciated “old and grey,” and everyone tittered again, but I knew the poem well, knew every word, and my heart had turned to liquid in my chest. “When you are old and grey and full of sleep,” he repeated over the chuckling, “and nodding by the fire, take down this book, and slowly read, and dream of the soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; how many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true, but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, and loved the sorrows of your changing face.” The room had grown quiet, and Maggie’s lips trembled, the soft sweetness of memory gleaming in her eyes. It was the kind of poem that made old women remember how it felt to be young. As he spoke, Thomas looked at everyone in turn, but the poem was for me; I was the pilgrim soul with a changing face. He finished, reflecting on how love fled and “paced upon the mountains overhead and hid his face amid a crowd of stars.” Everyone clapped and stamped their feet, and Thomas bowed jauntily, accepting the praise. But he met my gaze before taking his seat. When I dragged my eyes away, I found Brigid

she was. Loose and free, her shiny brown hair cascaded past her shoulders. Her face, open and disarming, held not a trace of the passage of time. Could today be any more depressing? Brandy turned to Cole who was eyeing a platter of hamburgers a waiter carried by. She put a hand on his arm to get his attention. While she signed my request, I turned to Jean-Charles. Before I spoke, he held up a hand. "A platter of hamburgers for your friends. I will prepare them myself, if you will excuse me." He gave a stiff little bow and a rueful half grin dialed back from its previous warmth. I watched him work his way through the tables, his practiced façade of charm falling into place, and wondered how to have a relationship with a man who bristled at the first barrier in his path.  Brandy and Cole were deep into a silent conversation, so I sipped my wine and pouted. Just being able to express a simple, albeit juvenile, emotion was so much better than my normal routine of bottling them inside. My job required eating too much crow as it was. I'd be damned if I'd conduct my personal life the same way.  Brandy snapped her fingers in front of my eyes. "Do