I Refuse To Sit On My Laurels.

He Was Pushing Fifty, With A Face Life Had Chewed On, And Long Wisps Of Graying Hair Parted Low On One Side And Combed Over His Balding Pate.

Night Fell Clean And Cold In Dublin, And Wind Moaned Beyond My Room As If A Million Pipes Played The Air.

I Stop Working At About 3 P.m. On Fridays.

Do No Harm & Leave The World A Better Place Than You Found It.

But When I Was A Little Kid, I Was Always Writing Stories And Illustrating Little Books That I Would Create.