John William Tuohy lives in Washington DC

The Hanging Party. A short story by John WIlliam Tuohy

Whatever you do you need courage. Whatever course you decide upon there is always someone to tell you that you are wrong. There are always difficulties arising that tempt you to believe your critics are right. To map out a course of action and follow it to an end requires some of the same courage that a soldier needs. Peace has its victories but it takes brave men and women to win them.

300 quotes from Emerson
To view more Emerson quotes or read a life background on Emerson please visit the books blog spot. We update the blog bi-monthly  emersonsaidit.blogspot.com

The Hanging Party
A short story
John William Tuohy

Tommy O’Connor sat in his car in the parking lot at the Valley Diner as if it were a safe haven against the impending storm. It wasn’t. It was only the first place to stop and he was early. Salesman’s habit.
Loosening his striped silk tie and slipping out of his woolen suit coat, he got out of the car and walked the length of the lot for no good reason. He recalled the times he’d walked here as a boy, eager to spend the few dollars he’d earned each week delivering the Ansonia Evening Sentinel, a great local newspaper while it lasted. It gave him his start in business. He wondered if kids still delivered the paper anywhere in America.
He peered through the lightly falling rain into the darkness of the Diner. When he was a kid and this was a factory town, the Diner had been open around the clock.  The place was operated by the—what was their name?—Greeks. Khronos—that’s what it was. He’d had a son who was a big deal on the high-school football team, but he died, or was that somebody else’s kid?  After 25 years, he couldn’t recall.
Anyway, then the factories left and the place cut back its hours. He’d heard that Khronos sold out and moved to Florida and practically gave the place to the cook, some Mexican guy. Then he died and the place went to Dolores Kearney. He knew the Kearneys from The Assumption parish. He heard she’d had a kid with Down syndrome who’d gotten married, and that Dolores married a plumber from Seymour.
Turning from the Diner, he took a deep breath and held it. This was his town. This is the place they would bring him back to when it was his turn to go. This place where they still called him Tommy.
Bored, he carefully kicked the mud from the hand-sewn leather on his oxblood loafers and watched a pretty, thin girl in a waitress uniform and with a light sweater and no raincoat leap from a cab and dash through the light rain into the Diner. Then, seeing the procession approach through the cold, rain-soaked streets, he straightened his silk tie around his neck and slid back into the waiting warmth of the automobile’s black European leather seat. and joined the procession as the last car. It was, he thought, a long procession; they always are when you die young. When you die old, not enough people are still alive remember you to form a decent procession. That was his theory anyway.
They drove slowly through the streets. The town was lifeless. Where were the vast herds of loud and laughing children who once roamed these streets? What became of the corner markets with their crooked floors and wooden counters, bent under the weight of those enormous, ancient cash registers with the white ivory keys? Places like Senesky’s with their hand-stuffed kielbasa, and Nicolette’s where the mozzarella was so fresh it dripped with warm milk. Like the children, they were gone and with them went the identity that, to him anyway, defined this place.
The mills were gone too, closed and silent as coffins. They’d said the wages were too high and the unions wanted too much. The truth is, the profits were too low, and it was the bosses who wanted too much. When they left, they took everything with them, leaving behind a generation too proud to cry foul.
He hoped Maria looked good, considering the circumstances. How long had it been? Twenty-four years? He had not seen her in almost as many years as he had lived here. He couldn’t remember Iggy Gallaher’s face anymore. At the service, the coffin had been closed.
Pulling himself away from his thoughts and trying to remember what Iggy had looked like, he looked around and realized he had stopped at a light. To his left was a vacant storefront. Wasn’t that where Giordano’s Pizza had been? What a shame. He pulled down the visor and looked into the mirror at his own face and noticed  that he looked old, or at least older. Annoyed, he slapped the contraption shut.
He recalled a faded snapshot he had, in a box somewhere, of himself, Iggy, and Maria upstairs at Giordano’s Pizza, where the booths were draped in white tablecloths and silverware. Downstairs, the tables were bare cold linoleum, and the forks and knives were white plastic. The picture showed himself and Iggy arm in arm, smiling broadly, proud of their new white shirts and new white ties, designed to match their new souls for their first communions
Straightening his tie again and slipping his suit coat on He paused for a second to look over the Valley past the town in near-lifeless repose, and strained to see the ocean that pushed brief, light winds of salt air around his face.
He held the door for a couple he didn’t know, and found a spot for himself inside, between the parlor and the dining room, where he stood feeling uncomfortable and exposed. He nodded and smiled to the few who looked his way and discreetly pulled his shirt cuff over his watch, which was too expensive for the room.
It genuinely surprised him when a somber caterer piled tin trays of overcooked food onto the imitation pine table. Where were the old aunts that everyone seemed to have, the ones who never learned to speak English?   The ones permanently draped in black shapeless dresses, rosaries tied to their wrists, scurrying back and forth from the kitchen with Massive plates of peppers and onions and garlic salami? Where were the grappa and the tiny cups of murky espresso? He reluctantly shuffled toward the table to pick and nibble bits of microwaved food, served on Styrofoam plates.
Filling a paper cup with warm cola, he retreated to his spot to wait for time to pass. After what seemed like an eternity, he placed his drink on top of the VCR, walked across the room, and tapped the young man on the shoulder.
“Michael,” he said, “I’m Thomas O’Connor. I’m sorry for your troubles. He was too young to die.”
“Mr. O’Connor, my dad talked about you a lot. I feel like I know you.”
“He talked about me?”  “Yeah, all the time, crazy Tommy O’Connor. Did you really take a cop car for a joyride?”
“No,” he lied. “And your mother?” Tommy was curious whether she’d ever spoken of him.
“Oh yeah, I’ll get her. I’ll tell her you’re leaving. She’s been with the funeral guy since we got back.”
“No, no, don’t. That’s fine.”
He gave the young man a final long look. Like his father, he wore an unmistakably Irish face. He had his mother’s dark eyes and dark hair.  He had always regretted what they  had done, thinking it a horrendous mistake, but now, seeing this stunningly handsome young man, he realized that the creation of a life could never be a mistake.
He shook the young man’s hand, released it, went out to the car, a light rain was still falling, loosening his tie with his first step outside. He slipped off the coat and slid behind the wheel.
“Tommy!” Maria called across the growing density of the fog. Maria, clad in black, strolled from the brightness of the house into the gray light of the day cross the lawn and lean on his opened car door.  Her once handsome face was ghastly pale, which illuminated the redness of her lips when she smiled at him.
She said, “Eat and run, huh? Yeah, you only came for the food.” Having never lost his joy in the self-deprecating humor of his social class, the working class, his return smile was spontaneous and genuine.
“Yeah,” he said, and handed her his plastic fork, which he had, “That and to steal your plastic ware. You caught me.”
She eyed his car and said, “For you, life is good, I see.”
“I stole it.”
She returned his smile and it erased years from her face. Then she turned serious.
“It was a long ways for you to come. Ma and I sincerely thank you for your presence,” she said. “We didn’t expect you. He searched for acrimony in the last words, and not finding any, he used the moment to study her still beautiful almost insentient face. She looked tired, drained. That was to be expected. But an aura about her, a dissolute grimness really, gave off a sense of defeat that had buried her and made her older than her years. As he had this thought, she narrowed her eyes in a way that startled and concerned him. Realizing he had been caught, he retreated into banality.
“Eliza saw it in the New Haven Register,” he said. “You remember Eliza?” He added, “My sister.”
“Yeah, sure yeah, the little one. How is she?”
“She’s fine. She’s in Old Saybrooke. Painting. She had a show up in Hartford and—” he stopped himself. This wasn’t the time. “She saw the—” he stopped himself, reluctant to use the word “obituary”— “thing in the paper about Iggy. So I just thought—”
“You’re always welcome here, you know that. You’re like family; you always were. Iggy would have been so proud that you was here. Honest to God.” Maria looked into his eyes.
“He really loved you, Tommy.”
Tommy decided not to answer and for a second an eternity of silence fell over them. She gave him a searching look and seemed to realize he felt guilt, that great equalizer of the Irish race, so she, as a woman who understood these things, gave him her Mona Lisa smile.
“It’s good to see you again.”  “You too, Maria. “He’s a handsome young man, your son. Well-spoken.”
“He’s a good boy. He reminds me of you sometimes.”
“Really?” “He’s got your eyes. Did you notice?”
“No,” he lied again.   “Did you ever tell your wife--?”
“Naw, there was never a right time or a right—” The chill of the wind charged in from the fog-drenched Sound.
“Time,” he finally said settling for the wrong word, “or something.”
“You’ve changed,” Maria said.  The wind changed directions, as New England shoreline winds are prone to do. He looked at her. Had her voice always been this nasal? Why did she start every third word with the letter D? Had she always spoken like that? Did he sound like that? Why were all these houses so small and shabby? Were they always that way? He wanted to leave.
“Did you ever tell him?”
“Naw. Iggy was a good father to him.”
Young Ignatius Gallaher, a cop like his father, appeared in the doorway and waved to her
“Do you need anything?” he asked, starting his car, “anything at all?”
“No. No, Iggy had his pension from the department. I’m still working. There's no insurance because of what he did to himself, but we’re okay.”
“Like I say, you ever need anything, Maria.”

She closed his car door in his mid-sentence and walked away. "I know,” she said over her shoulder, “I can count on you.”


In 1962, six year old John Tuohy, his two brothers and two sisters entered Connecticut’s foster care system and were promptly split apart. Over the next ten years, John would live in more than ten foster homes, group homes and state schools, from his native Waterbury to Ansonia, New Haven, West Haven, Deep River and Hartford. In the end, a decade later, the state returned him to the same home and the same parents they had taken him from. As tragic as is funny compelling story will make you cry and laugh as you journey with this child to overcome the obstacles of the foster care system and find his dreams.


John William Tuohy is a writer who lives in Washington DC. He holds an MFA in writing from Lindenwood University. He is the author of numerous non-fiction on the history of organized crime including the ground break biography of bootlegger Roger Tuohy "When Capone's Mob Murdered Touhy" and "Guns and Glamour: A History of Organized Crime in Chicago."
His non-fiction crime short stories have appeared in The New Criminologist, American Mafia and other publications. John won the City of Chicago's Celtic Playfest for his work The Hannigan's of Beverly, and his short story fiction work, Karma Finds Franny Glass, appeared in AdmitTwo Magazine in October of 2008.
His play, Cyberdate.Com, was chosen for a public performance at the Actors Chapel in Manhattan in February of 2007 as part of the groups Reading Series for New York project. In June of 2008, the play won the Virginia Theater of The First Amendment Award for best new play.

Contact John:


Thomas Alan Orr  
The October air was warm and musky, blowing
Over brown fields, heavy with the fragrance
Of freshly combined beans, the breath of harvest.

He was pulling a truckload onto the scales
At the elevator near the rail siding north of town.
When a big Cadillac drove up. A man stepped out,
Wearing a three-piece suit and a gold pinky ring.
The man said he had just invested a hundred grand
In soybeans and wanted to see what they looked like.

The farmer stared at the man and was quiet, reaching
For the tobacco in the rear pocket of his jeans,
Where he wore his only ring, a threadbare circle rubbed
By working cans of dip and long hours on the backside
Of a hundred acre run. He scooped up a handful
Of small white beans, the pearls of the prairie, saying:

Soybeans look like a foot of water on the field in April
When you're ready to plant and can't get in;
Like three kids at the kitchen table
Eating macaroni and cheese five nights in a row;
Or like a broken part on the combine when
Your credit with the implement dealer is nearly tapped.

Soybeans look like prayers bouncing off the ceiling
When prices on the Chicago grain market start to drop;
Or like your old man's tears when you tell him
How much the land might bring for subdivisions.
Soybeans look like the first good night of sleep in weeks.
When you unload at the elevator and the kids get Christmas.

He spat a little juice on the tire of the Cadillac,
Laughing despite himself and saying to the man:

Now maybe you can tell me what a hundred grand looks like.

The Orphans Explanation
A Poem
John William Tuohy

You had all of me most of the time
It’s all I’m capable of, most of the time.
I have ghosts that follow me
Most of the time
Disguised as the past
Pulling me backwards
Away from all of you.
Most of the time
You think I failed you
But you have no idea
Most of the time
What a great, Herculean effort it was
Just to give you that much
All of the time

Greetings NYCPlaywrights

NYCPlaywrights is offering two tickets to members of this mailing list to see MRS. SMITH’S BROADWAY CAT-TACULAR!
AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS EMAIL, respond to info@nycplaywrights.org to claim your tickets. Tickets are on a first-come, first-serve basis.
About the show:
“MRS. SMITH is a woman on the verge of a cat-based breakdown — in search of her missing cat, Carlyle. To overcome the grief and rage of this “personal apocalypse,” she’s tried psychoanalysis, New Age therapies and, now, mounting a Broadway-style musical spectacular where her bizarre life story is re-enacted in delirious song and dance. With the aid of her dapper Broadway Boys, Mrs. Smith puts her laugh-out-loud spin on a the perilous highs and lows of fame, fortune and superstardom.”
If you don’t get the free tickets you can still get discounted tickets. More information here:


Shakespeare in Bryant Park: Romeo and Juliet
The Drilling Company
Every week on Friday and Saturday between 7/17/2015 and 8/2/2015.
Free and open to the public. Performances occur on Fridays and Saturdays from 6:30 - 8:30p.m. and Sundays from 2:00 - 4:00p.m.


Fall 2015 classes at the Primary Stages Einhorn School of Performing Arts (ESPA) are now open for enrollment! Start a FIRST DRAFT, tackle a REWRITE, perfect the art of SHORT FORMS, and conquer the play submission process. Faculty includes BROOKE BERMAN (Hunting and Gathering), HALLEY FEIFFER (A Funny Thing… at MCC), A. REY PAMATMAT (after all the terrible things I do), STEFANIE ZADRAVEC (The Electric Baby), MELISSA ROSS (Of Good Stock), and many other award-winning faculty members who provide practical skills and expert guidance in a collaborative atmosphere.
Full list of classes: http://primarystages.org/ESPA.
Payment plans available.

*** Venus/Adonis Theater Festival 2016 ~ Our Eighth Festival Season ***
Acknowledgement in the form of excellent prizes: $2,500 for Best Play and $500 each for Best Actress, Actor and Director, as well as $300 for Best Musical and $200 for Best Original Play. This is more than any other U.S. festival that we know of. 

There is no question why Venus/Adonis has taken the world of playwrighting festivals by storm, becoming the second largest festival in the country in just 4 years.
 It's because playwrights enjoy staging their plays with us! 

We are a group of playwrights who, after years of staging our plays in NYC festivals, said: "Why don't we create a festival that includes everything we dreamt of having while being part of others?"

 The result is beyond our wildest expectations. In just a few years, Venus/Adonis has caught fire as the number of submissions we receive continues to grow every year.

 Is this sheer luck or an acknowledgment of what we offer?

Let's find out at: http://venusnytheaterfestival.com/

Please consider the following guidelines for Därkhorse Drämatists “Tales from the Script”! It’s important to note, that while we favor newer plays, this festival is not limited to original work. Your submissions may have been produced at other venues, so long as it is unpublished and wasn’t featured in last year’s festival. Besides one-act plays, we are also looking for 1-person shorts & monologues. Please refer to the guidelines below.
One-acts: 25 page maximum / 10 page minimum. (No minimum page count for 1 person shorts or monologues). No exceedingly violent or pornographic material. Adult language allowed within reason.
Plays may have a maximum of 3-4 characters and should take place in a limited setting and minimal props.
2 submissions allowed per playwright.

When we look at a piece of art each person has a different interpretation of what they see. That is the beauty of art and the challenge to our playwrights. Each year we take three works of art and ask writers to write a play as they are moved or inspired by the artwork. We blind-read the submissions, select the best and produce them. The art is exhibited, we perform the play and ask the audience for feedback. It is our annual mixed media event that draws inquisitive art and theatre lovers to KNOW. Come join us.

Selected short plays will be performed during the Autry’s American Indian Arts Marketplace in Los Angeles. This year’s theme: What is family?
Today there are many variations on what it means to be a family. Your play on the family story might focus on the more traditional, extended family story (parents and children residing with other family members); or perhaps the so-called nuclear family; or maybe it’s a story of a mother or father raising their children; or a brother, his sister, and her children; or maybe you want to explore GAP family stories (grandparents raising grandchildren); or an adopted or created family story.
What does all of this mean to the Native American family and identity? Are we born into a family for life, or do we surround ourselves with adopted “family members” as we grow older? Whether a family is biological or chosen, it has shaped our identity and formed our histories.

*** FOR MORE INFORMATION on these and other opportunities see the web site at http://www.nycplaywrights.org ***

The Actors Studio is a membership organization for professional actors, theatre directors and playwrights at 432 West 44th Street in the Hell's Kitchen neighborhood of Manhattan in New York City. It was founded October 5, 1947, by Elia Kazan, Cheryl Crawford, Robert Lewis and Anna Sokolow, who provided training for actors who were members.[1] Lee Strasberg joined later and took the helm in 1951 until his death on February 17, 1982. It is currently run by Al Pacino, Ellen Burstyn, and Harvey Keitel. The Studio is best known for its work refining and teaching method acting. The approach was originally developed by the Group Theatre in the 1930s based on the innovations of Constantin Stanislavski. While at the Studio, actors work together to develop their skills in a private environment where they can take risks as performers without the pressure of commercial roles.
Method Acting
In the dramatic arts, method acting is a group of techniques actors use to create in themselves the thoughts and feelings of their characters, so as to develop lifelike performances. Though not all method actors use the same approach, the "method" (sometimes capitalized as Method) refers to the methods used by actors, which are based on the teachings and concepts of Constantin Stanislavski. Stanislavski's ideas were adapted by teachers such as Stella Adler, Robert Lewis, Sanford Meisner and Lee Strasberg for American actors. Strasberg's teaching emphasized the practice of connecting to a character by drawing on personal emotions and memories, aided by a set of exercises and practices including sense memory and affective memory. Stanislavski's system of acting was the foundation of Strasberg's technique. Rigorous adherents of Strasberg's technique are now commonly referred to as "method actors".
Method acting has been described as having "revolutionized American theater". While classical acting instruction "had focused on developing external talents", the method was "the first systematized training that also developed internal abilities (sensory, psychological, emotional)".[1]
The Lee Strasberg Theatre & Film Institute
James Dean and the Actors Studio
New York, NY -- WESTWOOD GALLERY NYC is pleased to present the premiere New York exhibition for acclaimed photographer, Roy Schatt (1909-2002). In keeping with the gallery program of rediscovering forgotten artists and photographers, Curator James Cavello reviewed the archive of Schatt and organized an exhibition of over 50 vintage and modern prints, some never before seen, others exhibited in the 1950's.
Strasberg at the Actors Studio: Tape-recorded Sessions
Legendary Lee Strasberg remains one of the most influential, controversial and misunderstood figure in the history of American theatre. An actor and director of considerable skill and accomplishment, he made his lasting mark as a master acting teacher, avatar of "the method, " that distinctively American adaption of Kinstantin Stanislavski's codification of acting techniques. From his base at New York's Actors Studio, Strasberg trained several generations of theatre and film's most illustrious talents, including Anne Bancroft, Julie Harris, Dustin Hoffman, Marilyn Monroe, Patricia Neal, James Dean, Sally Field, Jane Fonda, Paul Newman, Geraldine Page, Al Pacino, Steve McQueen, Franchot Tone and Gene Wilder.
Still Mad at the Method and Its Gurus
WHEN "Finishing the Picture," Arthur Miller's latest play, receives its world premiere at the Goodman Theater in Chicago on Oct. 5, plenty of audience members will be scrutinizing the silent, pill-popping starlet Kitty for references to Marilyn Monroe, Mr. Miller's former wife. But Kitty isn't the only familiar-seeming character. "Finishing the Picture" features two badly behaved acting teachers, Jerome and Flora Fassinger, who make pronouncements like, "The actor's performance is a process of such complication, not on par with the atom bomb, but close." In other words, Jerome and Flora sound a lot like the Actors Studio guru, Lee Strasberg, and his first wife, Paula.
Marilyn Monroe and the Actors Studio (Documentary)
Al Pacino Opens Up About Acting and His Career

Well, the Actors Studio sort of was like in England its equivalent would be RADA. It was a school when I was young it wasn’t a school, it was an institution where you aspired to go to. I mean going to the Actors Studio was kind of a mini achievement for a young actor, especially if you didn’t have any money or anything to support you. So everybody tried out. I remember my friend was 16 years-old and he was a very gifted actor, I went to junior high school with him, he tried out. As I said just before I came in here, the Actors Studio, anybody can try out. You don’t need a union card. They have no age discrimination. Anybody. That’s what’s really one of the high points of the Actors Studio, I think. It gets really high marks from me because of that liberality.

Is Method Acting Destroying Actors?
There’s something about modern-day acting—the style that is famously associated with Lee Strasberg’s Method and that gained currency from his Actors Studio and its offshoots—that inclines toward deformations of character. That modern school, which links emotional moments from a performer’s own life to that of a character, and which conceives characters in terms of complete and filled-out lives that actors imagine and inhabit, asks too much of performers. Here’s how Franco describes it:
Actors have been lashing out against their profession and its grip on their public images since at least Marlon Brando. Brando’s performances revolutionized American acting precisely because he didn’t seem to be “performing,” in the sense that he wasn’t putting something on as much as he was being
Franco’s description of the style is, I think, accurate; his diagnosis of its connection to Brando’s public image is beside the point. An actor’s attempted excavation of her own deepest and harshest experiences to lend them to characters adds a dimension of self-revelation (even if only to oneself), of wounds reopened and memories relived, that would make for agony in therapy. On the other hand, the effort to conceive a character as a filled-out person, with a lifetime of backstory and biographical details, becomes a submergence into another (albeit fictitious) life, an abnegation of a nearly monastic stringency. In the effort to make emotions true, to model performance on the plausible actions of life offstage or offscreen, the modern actor is often both too much and too little herself.
The Arrival of Method Acting in US Film & TV
Method acting initially came to the attention of the U.S. public at about the same time that television enjoyed its first growth spurt: the late 1940s and early 1950s. At that time, director Elia Kazan brought Marlon Brando to the stage and then to the screen in A Streetcar Named Desire (1951), which was followed by On the Waterfront (1954). Brando was the most visible of several distinctive new actors who were advocating the Method. He, James Dean, Montgomery Clift, Julie Harris, and others had been trained by Method teachers such as Lee Strasberg (at the Actors Studio) and Stella Adler (Brando’s principal teacher). However, the Method was being taught in the live theater long before this crop of actors made their impact on U.S. cinema. The technique originated in Russia at the end of the nineteenth century, when Constantin Stanislavski founded the Moscow Art Theater in 1897. Stanislavski disdained any acting other than that of the live theater. He barely tolerated film actors and died in 1938 before television became a mass medium. Still, the impact of the Stanislavski system on television has been immeasurable.
Paul Newman talks Actors Studio in 1964


                                  “Everyone must believe in something. I believe I'll go canoeing.” - Henry David Thoreau

Epitaph: The Night We Buried McEvoy
A poem about a long gone ago


John William Tuohy

When I was but a boy back in 64
Old Bull McEvoy hit the proverbial floor
Where he went nobody knows
But dead he was, dead for sure, dead down to the core

The wake we give him
‘Twas the event of the year
Everyone who was anyone
Made sure that they was there

After mass and the chalice we retired one and all
Down to Sullivan’s corpse palace
Just near the Hibernian hall
Where a grand time, I tells ya’s was planned by one and all.

We in our best soots and ties worn
Like feck’n hangman’s noose
Calloused hands with neither watch no ring
Naw, not for us, our kind don’t wear dose tings

 The ladies dolled their Sunday best
Whispered to the widow wit respect
And promised her they’d die pray’n
For the hosts eternal rest

One by one we knelt before the future
Our hands in pious prayer
Over the old boys corpse
Where it noted, goddamn life it ain’t fair.

Big Murphy the cops comes in
But he don’t know the dead
Makes his way to the food trays
To get his fat ass fed

Riley the carpenter follows  
Sans coat and tie
And tells the window dear that
“The Mac chose a good day to die”

And my what a fine coffin
Twas a fortune to buy
If himself would just move over, says he
He’d gladly give it a try.

And here’s Pat O’Meara Wit da wife, the dear old lovely skinny Vera 
 “I never seen the Mac look finer, says he with a nod
 And wasn’t just the other day
We was pick’n horses down at the Valley Diner

Sullivan the plumber sailed in
five sheets to the wind
behind him come da corpse third cousin
And all da odder various kin.

Father Murphy there to console the poor widow dear
He gives her a rosary and a prayer
Then joined the boys in back
For a song, a butt, a shot and a beer

The Roselli’s brought fried eggplant
but it went mostly untouched
But Steinberg brought a corn beef
that caused a table rush  

The AOH come by and so did the KOC
to offer the widow thar pity
And behind them dressed in black
Come the old lands Biddies

Den da union people slithered in
 and pretend to know our names
But now we’re all the wiser
To their feck’n games.

And when the last shops close
And there is no more blood to suck
They’ll be at the sweat shops China
Try’n to hustle a china man’s buck.

By ten the coffin joined the spirit
and started to sway with the walls
and when boys from Hill Top Hose arrived
we had an early fireman’s ball.

If Bitsy McGee coulda stood she woulda stood
And ah, I tell you, the golden words she woulda weaved
But she couldn’t and she didn’t
All she says is “Boy’s I gotta pee”

So Junior McEvoy commanded the floor
And demanded it stop spinning
And den defied gravity itself
Cause just by standing he was winning

He had his fill to the gills
Of the Celt killer the drink.
  Ah but so smooth was he with his fine words
We coulda charged a fee

Let us speak of my pop, the McEvoy himself
He knew that it’s in the giving we receive
And when injured by others
We should always offer reprieve

Where there was darkness
He offered light
And where he wronged
 He almost always made it right

To those who faced sorrow
He spoke of a better tomorrow
He believed in the eternal life.
Where there is no want, no sadness and no strife

He lived his life
He loved and he won and he lost
And never, not once, can it be said
He shrunk from the deep, deep cost

He knew much pain yet held on to hope
He never made an evil gain, God bless him
He never learned to hate
And never surrendered a single day to fate

The way he seen it
Despite all it’s pain  
Magnificent is ours world
But it’s the heavens we must gain

He nipped a bit much
He laughed when he could
He doubted yet the kept the faith
As, Lord knows, we all should.

He was of the generation
 That handled the fuss
They’ll never see your likes again
The mangy ungrateful cuss

Yous who a depression faced
Yous who put a man in space
 It all come from us, the working class
That saved this world’s ungrateful ass.

Wasn’t it us that made Tojo bow?
And us that gave feck’n Hitler his due.
And now look at us
We drive Volkswagens and Subaru’s.

Here’s how it is ain’t it true?
The boys at the top
Close our shops
And there ain’t a damn thing we can do

The America you saved my friends
She all gone she’s died
And with her went our world
Our hopes, our work and all our earthly pride

Then from the floor rises
Bitsy McGee
“War” she axes “
Does a lady go to pee?”

So we shows her the bowl
What to Chris ‘in
“Finally” says old Bitsy
“I got a pot to piss in.”

At the end the flags was furled
The coffin closed. Dead to the world
To the sidewalk we staggered
Tired drunk and haggard

Finney tells the widow dear
“If you’re Irish the world will break your heart”
And there is no earthly thing to do of it
So may we laugh until this world we all part.

What Love is…..

“It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain!I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.”

Oriah Mountain Dreamer

"Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind."

Visit our Shakespeare Blog at the address below

HERE'S SOME REALLY NICE ART TO LOOK AT IT.......................

The Car by John Brack, 1955

Marc Chagall, 1956


I’M TRYING TO TEACH MYSELF SPANISH AND THIS IS WHAT I LEARNED TODAY…..                                                              
Carterista: pick-pocket
Example sentence:  La policía detuvo a un carterista anoche.
Sentence meaning: The police arrested a pick-pocket last night.


Hydra: (HY-druh) A persistent or multifaceted problem that presents a new obstacle when a part of it is solved. After the many-headed monster Hydra in Greek mythology. When its one head was cut off, it sprouted two more. It was ultimately slain by Hercules. From Latin Hydra, from Greek Hudra (water snake). Ultimately from the Indo-European root wed- (water, wet), which also gave us water, wash, winter, hydrant, redundant, otter, and vodka. Earliest documented use: 1374.

The simplest way to get — and stay — happy, according to psychologists


When was the last time you felt a light-hearted awareness where you had a skip in your step, care-free grin on your face, and overwhelming sense that despite what happened, everything was going to work out?
In other words, when was the last time you were truly happy?
It's an amazing, but often fleeting, feeling. And many of us don't get enough of it.
What's more, there's a common belief that if we seek out things like a better career, more money, and meaningful companionship, we'll be happier as a result.
But that may be a harmful misconception. Science journalist Wendy Zukerman explained the idea on a recent episode of the podcast series "Science VS."
To measure the level of happiness in people around the world, scientists use large surveys like the Mappiness app and the World Happiness Report where thousands of volunteers answer questions about how satisfied they are with their quality of life, overall well-being, and happiness.
While the results can't conclusively say what exactly makes all humans happy and what doesn't, the growing literature on this topic has found several key themes in how people can go about finding more, long-lasting joy in life.

How much of our happiness can we actually control?
Many of us try to achieve happiness by accumulating more things in life that we think will make us happy, like higher income or a stable family life. But as it turns out, there's a scientific reason this strategy won't do us much good.
A pretty large chunk of our happiness is genetic.
Several studies done over the past decade estimate that anywhere between 30% and 80% of our happiness s dictated by our genes. One large recent study of 20,000 pairs of fraternal and identical twins (widely recognized as the easiest way to separate the differences caused by nature and nurture) found that roughly 33% of he variation in life satisfaction is explained by genetic differences.
Other studies suggest that anywhere from 10% to 60% of our happiness comes from our attitude and overall outlook on life.
If you do the math, that means that just a fraction — about 10% of our happiness — comes from external things that happen to us, including changes in our career, relationships, or income.
So while going after that promotion might seem like it'll make you happy, all that stuff only chips away at the tip of the iceberg.

The "hedonic treadmill"
A psychological phenomenon called the "hedonic adaptation" first coined in the 1970s states that we all have a base level of happiness that's basically unchangeable — regardless of what happens in our lives.
If we get a job promotion, for example, we'll celebrate and feel good, but those emotions are only temporary, the theory goes.
In the early '90s, British psychologist Michael Eysenck likened this constant starvation for more — and more and more — to a treadmill. Consequently, the "hedonic adaptation" is more commonly known today as the "hedonic treadmill."
"You're running but you're on that treadmill and you're not getting anywhere in terms of happiness," Zukerman says.
Eventually that boost in happiness you get from a job promotion or marriage proposal will abate, and you'll be back to the same baseline level of happiness you were before the exciting change.
How to make a change for the better
There are lots of science-backed ways we can improve our overall well-being and grow happier in the long-run. Here are just a few:
1. Meditate: Multiple studies suggest that meditating — focusing intently and quietly on the present for set periods of time — can help lessen feelings of depression and anxiety.
2. Go outside: One study found that a group of students sent into the trees for two nights had lower levels of cortisol — a hormone often used as a marker for stress — than those who spent the same two nights in a city.
3. Get involved in cultural activities: A study that examined the anxiety, depression, and life satisfaction of over 50,000 adults in Norway offered an interesting link: People who participated in more cultural activities, like attending a play or joining a club, reported lower levels of anxiety and depression as well as a higher satisfaction with their overall quality of life.
4. Spend money on others: A 2008 study gave 46 volunteers an envelope with money in it wherein half were instructed to spend the money on themselves and the other half put the money towards a charitable donation or gift for someone they knew. The volunteers recorded their happiness level before receiving the envelope and after spending the money by the end of that same day.
5. Volunteer: In a recent review of 40 studies done over the last 20 years, researchers found that one activity was far more important than the rest for boosting psychological health: volunteering. This activity, the researchers reported, had been found in many volunteers to be linked with a reduced risk of depression, a higher amount of overall satisfaction, and even a reduced risk of death from of a physical illness as a consequence of mental distress.

Conclusion: If you're looking to get a mood boost that'll last you in the long-term, focus on your state of mind in the present, be grateful for what you have, and stop to enjoy it! You'll thank yourself a few minutes — or a few years — down the road.



Architecture for the blog of it

Art for the Blog of It

Art for the Pop of it

Photography for the blog of it

Music for the Blog of it

Sculpture this and Sculpture that

The art of War (Propaganda art through the ages)

Album Art (Photographic arts)

Pulp Fiction Trash (The art of Pulp Fiction covers)

Admit it, you want to Read this Book (The art of Pulp Fiction covers)

The Godfather Trilogy BlogSpot

On the Waterfront: The Making of a great American Film

Absolutely blogalicious

The Wee Book of Irish Recipes (Book support site)

Good chowda (New England foods)

Old New England Recipes (Book support site)

And I Love Clams (New England foods)

In Praise of the Rhode Island Wiener (New England foods)

Wicked Cool New England Recipes (New England foods)

Old New England Recipes (New England foods)

Foster Care new and Updates

Aging out of the system

Murder, Death and Abuse in the Foster Care system

Angel and Saints in the Foster Care System

The Foster Children’s Blogs

Foster Care Legislation

The Foster Children’s Bill of Right

Foster Kids own Story

The Adventures of Foster Kid.

Me vs. Diabetes (Diabetes education site)

The Quotable Helen Keller

Teddy Roosevelt's Letters to his children (Book support site)

The Quotable Machiavelli (Book support site)

Whatever you do, don't laugh

The Quotable Grouch Marx

A Big Blog of Irish Literature

The Wee Blog of Irish Jokes (Book support blog)

The Wee Blog of Irish Recipes

The Irish American Gangster

The Irish in their Own Words

When Washington Was Irish

The Wee Book of Irish Recipes (Book support site)

Following Fitzgerald


The Blogable Robert Frost

Charles Dickens

The Beat Poets of the Forever Generation

Holden Caulfield Blog Spot

The Quotable Oscar Wilde

The Quotable Thoreau

Old New England Recipes

Wicked Cool New England Recipes


The New England Mafia

And I Love Clams

In Praise of the Rhode Island Wiener

Watch Hill

York Beach

The Connecticut History Blog

The Connecticut Irish

Good chowda

God, How I hated the 70s

Child of the Sixties Forever

The Kennedy’s in the 60’s

Music of the Sixties Forever

Elvis and Nixon at the White House (Book support site)

Beatles Fan Forever

Year One, 1955

Robert Kennedy in His Own Words

The 1980s were fun

The 1990s. The last decade.

The Russian Mafia

The American Jewish Gangster

The Mob in Hollywood

We Only Kill Each Other

Early Gangsters of New York City

Al Capone: Biography of a self-made Man

The Life and World of Al Capone

The Salerno Report

Guns and Glamour

The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre

Mob Testimony

Recipes we would Die For

The Prohibition in Pictures

The Mob in Pictures

The Mob in Vegas

The Irish American Gangster

Roger Touhy Gangster

Chicago’s Mob Bosses

Chicago Gang Land: It Happened Here

Whacked: One Hundred years of Murder in Gangland

The Mob Across America

Mob Cops, Lawyers and Front Men

Shooting the Mob: Dutch Schultz

Bugsy& His Flamingo: The Testimony of Virginia Hill

After Valachi. Hearings before the US Senate on Organized Crime

Mob Buster: Report of Special Agent Virgil Peterson to the Kefauver Committee (Book support site)

The US Government’s Timeline of Organized Crime (Book support site)

The Kefauver Organized Crime Hearings (Book support site)

Joe Valachi's testimony on the Mafia (Book support site)

Mobsters in the News

Shooting the Mob: Dead Mobsters (Book support site)

The Stolen Years Full Text (Roger Touhy)

Mobsters in Black and White

Mafia Gangsters, Wiseguys and Goodfellas

Whacked: One Hundred Years of Murder and Mayhem in the Chicago Mob (Book support site)

Gangland Gaslight: The Killing of Rosy Rosenthal (Book support site)

The Best of the Mob Files Series (Book support site)

It’s All Greek Mythology to me

Psychologically Relevant

The Rarifieid Tribe

Perfect Behavior

The Upscale Traveler

The Mish Mosh Blog

DC Behind the Monuments

Washington Oddities

When Washington Was Irish

Litchfield Literary Books. A really small company run by writers.


The Day Nixon Met Elvis
Paperback 46 pages

Theodore Roosevelt: Letters to his Children. 1903-1918
Paperback 194 pages

The Works of Horace
Paperback 174 pages

The Quotable Greeks
Paperback 234 pages

The Quotable Epictetus
Paperback 142 pages

Quo Vadis: A narrative of the time of Nero
Paperback 420 pages

The Porchless Pumpkin: A Halloween Story for Children
A Halloween play for young children. By consent of the author, this play may be performed, at no charge, by educational institutions, neighborhood organizations and other not-for-profit-organizations.
A fun story with a moral
“I believe that Denny O'Day is an American treasure and this little book proves it. Jack is a pumpkin who happens to be very small, by pumpkins standards and as a result he goes unbought in the pumpkin patch on Halloween eve, but at the last moment he is given his chance to prove that just because you're small doesn't mean you can't be brave. Here is the point that I found so wonderful, the book stresses that while size doesn't matter when it comes to courage...ITS OKAY TO BE SCARED....as well. I think children need to hear that, that's its okay to be unsure because life is a ongoing lesson isn't it?”
Paperback: 42 pages

It's Not All Right to be a Foster Kid....no matter what they tell you: Tweet the books contents
Paperback 94 pages

From the Author
I spent my childhood, from age seven through seventeen, in foster care.  Over the course of those ten years, many decent, well-meaning, and concerned people told me, "It's okay to be foster kid."
In saying that, those very good people meant to encourage me, and I appreciated their kindness then, and all these many decades later, I still appreciate their good intentions. But as I was tossed around the foster care system, it began to dawn on me that they were wrong.  It was not all right to be a foster kid.
During my time in the system, I was bounced every eighteen months from three foster homes to an orphanage to a boy's school and to a group home before I left on my own accord at age seventeen.
In the course of my stay in foster care, I was severely beaten in two homes by my "care givers" and separated from my four siblings who were also in care, sometimes only blocks away from where I was living.
I left the system rather than to wait to age out, although the effects of leaving the system without any family, means, or safety net of any kind, were the same as if I had aged out. I lived in poverty for the first part of my life, dropped out of high school, and had continuous problems with the law.
 Today, almost nothing about foster care has changed.  Exactly what happened to me is happening to some other child, somewhere in America, right now.  The system, corrupt, bloated, and inefficient, goes on, unchanging and secretive.
Something has gone wrong in a system that was originally a compassionate social policy built to improve lives but is now a definitive cause in ruining lives.  Due to gross negligence, mismanagement, apathy, and greed, mostly what the foster care system builds are dangerous consequences. Truly, foster care has become our epic national disgrace and a nightmare for those of us who have lived through it.
Yet there is a suspicion among some Americans that foster care costs too much, undermines the work ethic, and is at odds with a satisfying life.  Others see foster care as a part of the welfare system, as legal plunder of the public treasuries.
 None of that is true; in fact, all that sort of thinking does is to blame the victims.  There is not a single child in the system who wants to be there or asked to be there.  Foster kids are in foster care because they had nowhere else to go.  It's that simple.  And believe me, if those kids could get out of the system and be reunited with their parents and lead normal, healthy lives, they would. And if foster care is a sort of legal plunder of the public treasuries, it's not the kids in the system who are doing the plundering.
 We need to end this needless suffering.  We need to end it because it is morally and ethically wrong and because the generations to come will not judge us on the might of our armed forces or our technological advancements or on our fabulous wealth.
 Rather, they will judge us, I am certain, on our compassion for those who are friendless, on our decency to those who have nothing and on our efforts, successful or not, to make our nation and our world a better place.  And if we cannot accomplish those things in the short time allotted to us, then let them say of us "at least they tried."
You can change the tragedy of foster care and here's how to do it.  We have created this book so that almost all of it can be tweeted out by you to the world.  You have the power to improve the lives of those in our society who are least able to defend themselves.  All you need is the will to do it.
 If the American people, as good, decent and generous as they are, knew what was going on in foster care, in their name and with their money, they would stop it.  But, generally speaking, although the public has a vague notion that foster care is a mess, they don't have the complete picture. They are not aware of the human, economic and social cost that the mismanagement of the foster care system puts on our nation.
By tweeting the facts laid out in this work, you can help to change all of that.  You can make a difference.  You can change things for the better.
We can always change the future for a foster kid; to make it better ...you have the power to do that. Speak up (or tweet out) because it's your country.  Don't depend on the "The other guy" to speak up for these kids, because you are the other guy.
We cannot build a future for foster children, but we can build foster children for the future and the time to start that change is today.

No time to say Goodbye: Memoirs of a life in foster 
Paperbook 440 Books

On the Waterfront: The Making of a Great American Film
Paperback: 416 pages


Scotish Ghost Stories
Paperback 186 pages

The Book of funny odd and interesting things people say
Paperback: 278 pages

The Wee Book of Irish Jokes

Perfect Behavior: A guide for Ladies and Gentlemen in all Social Crises


You Don’t Need a Weatherman. Underground 1969
Paperback 122 pages

Baby Boomers Guide to the Beatles Songs of the Sixties

Baby Boomers Guide to Songs of the 1960s

The Connecticut Irish
Paper back 140 pages

 The Wee Book of Irish Jokes

The Wee Book of Irish Recipes 
 The Wee Book of the American-Irish Gangsters

 The Wee book of Irish Blessings... 

The Wee Book of the American Irish in Their Own Words

Everything you need to know about St. Patrick
Paperback 26 pages

A Reading Book in Ancient Irish History
Paperback 147pages

The Book of Things Irish

Poets and Dreamer; Stories translated from the Irish
Paperback 158 pages

The History of the Great Irish Famine: Abridged and Illustrated
Paperback 356 pages


The New England Mafia

Wicked Good New England Recipes

The Connecticut Irish
Paper back 140 pages

The Twenty-Fifth Regiment Connecticut Volunteers
Paperback 64 pages

The Life of James Mars
Paperback 54 pages

Stories of Colonial Connecticut
Paperback 116 pages

What they Say in Old New England
Paperback 194 pages


Chicago Organized Crime

The Mob Files: It Happened Here: Places of Note in Chicago gangland 1900-2000

An Illustrated Chronological History of the Chicago Mob. Time Line 1837-2000

Mob Buster: Report of Special Agent Virgil Peterson to the Kefauver Committee

The Mob Files. Guns and Glamour: The Chicago Mob. A History. 1900-2000

Shooting the Mob: Organized crime in photos. Crime Boss Tony Accardo

Shooting the Mob: Organized Crime in Photos: The Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre.

The Life and World of Al Capone in Photos

AL CAPONE: The Biography of a Self-Made Man.: Revised from the 0riginal 1930 edition.Over 200 new photographs
Paperback: 340 pages

Whacked. One Hundred Years Murder and Mayhem in the Chicago Outfit
Paperback: 172 pages

Las Vegas Organized Crime
The Mob in Vegas

Bugsy & His Flamingo: The Testimony of Virginia Hill

Testimony by Mobsters Lewis McWillie, Joseph Campisi and Irwin Weiner (The Mob Files Series)

Rattling the Cup on Chicago Crime.
Paperback 264 pages

The Life and Times of Terrible Tommy O’Connor.
Paperback 94 pages

The Mob, Sam Giancana and the overthrow of the Black Policy Racket in Chicago
Paperback 200 pages

When Capone’s Mob Murdered Roger Touhy. In Photos
Paperback 234 pages

Organized Crime in Hollywood
The Mob in Hollywood

The Bioff Scandal
Paperback 54 pages

Organized Crime in New York
Joe Pistone’s war on the mafia

Mob Testimony: Joe Pistone, Michael Scars DiLeonardo, Angelo Lonardo and others

The New York Mafia: The Origins of the New York Mob

The New York Mob: The Bosses

Organized Crime 25 Years after Valachi. Hearings before the US Senate

Shooting the mob: Dutch Schultz

Gangland Gaslight: The Killing of Rosy Rosenthal. (Illustrated)

Early Street Gangs and Gangsters of New York City
Paperback 382 pages

The Russian Mafia in America

The Threat of Russian Organzied Crime
Paperback 192 pages

Organized Crime/General
Best of Mob Stories

Best of Mob Stories Part 2


Mob Recipes to Die For. Meals and Mobsters in Photos

More Mob Recipes to Die For. Meals and Mobs

The New England Mafia

Shooting the mob. Organized crime in photos. Dead Mobsters, Gangsters and Hoods.

The Salerno Report: The Mafia and the Murder of President John F. Kennedy

The Mob Files: Mob Wars. "We only kill each other"

The Mob across America

The US Government’s Time Line of Organzied Crime 1920-1987

Early Street Gangs and Gangsters of New York City: 1800-1919. Illustrated

The Mob Files: Mob Cops, Lawyers and Informants and Fronts

Gangster Quotes: Mobsters in their own words. Illustrated
Paperback: 128 pages

The Book of American-Jewish Gangsters: A Pictorial History.
Paperback: 436 pages

The Mob and the Kennedy Assassination
Paperback 414 pages


The Last Outlaw: The story of Cole Younger, by Himself
Paperback 152 pages

Chicago: A photographic essay.
 Paperback: 200 pages

Boomers on a train: A ten minute play
Paperback 22 pages

Four Short Plays
By John William Tuohy

Four More Short Plays
By John William Tuohy

High and Goodbye: Everybody gets the Timothy Leary they deserve. A full length play
By John William Tuohy

Cyberdate. An Everyday Love Story about Everyday People
By John William Tuohy

The Dutchman's Soliloquy: A one Act Play based on the factual last words of Gangster Dutch Schultz.
By John William Tuohy

Fishbowling on The Last Words of Dutch Schultz: Or William S. Burroughs intersects with Dutch Schultz
Print Length: 57 pages

American Shakespeare: August Wilson in his own words. A One Act Play
By John William Tuohy

She Stoops to Conquer

The Seven Deadly Sins of Gilligan’s Island: A ten minute play
Print Length: 14 pages

OUT OF CONTROL: An Informal History of the Fairfax County Police

McLean Virginia. A short informal history


The Quotable Emerson: Life lessons from the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson: Over 300 quotes

The Quotable John F. Kennedy

The Quotable Oscar Wilde

The Quotable Machiavelli

The Quotable Confucius: Life Lesson from the Chinese Master

The Quotable Henry David Thoreau

The Quotable Robert F. Kennedy

The Quotable Writer: Writers on the Writers Life

The words of Walt Whitman: An American Poet
Paperback: 162 pages

Gangster Quotes: Mobsters in their own words. Illustrated
Paperback: 128 pages

The Quotable Popes
Paperback 66 pages

The Quotable Kahlil Gibran with Artwork from Kahlil Gibran
Paperback 52 pages
Kahlil Gibran, an artist, poet, and writer was born on January 6, 1883 n the north of modern-day Lebanon and in what was then part of Ottoman Empire. He had no formal schooling in Lebanon. In 1895, the family immigrated to the United States when Kahlil was a young man and settled in South Boston. Gibran enrolled in an art school and was soon a member of the avant-garde community and became especially close to Boston artist, photographer, and publisher Fred Holland Day who encouraged and supported Gibran’s creative projects. An accomplished artist in drawing and watercolor, Kahlil attended art school in Paris from 1908 to 1910, pursuing a symbolist and romantic style. He held his first art exhibition of his drawings in 1904 in Boston, at Day's studio. It was at this exhibition, that Gibran met Mary Elizabeth Haskell, who ten years his senior. The two formed an important friendship and love affair that lasted the rest of Gibran’s short life. Haskell influenced every aspect of Gibran’s personal life and career. She became his editor when he began to write and ushered his first book into publication in 1918, The Madman, a slim volume of aphorisms and parables written in biblical cadence somewhere between poetry and prose. Gibran died in New York City on April 10, 1931, at the age of 48 from cirrhosis of the liver and tuberculosis.

The Quotable Dorothy Parker
Paperback 86 pages

The Quotable Machiavelli
Paperback 36 pages

The Quotable Greeks
Paperback 230 pages

The Quotabe Oscar Wilde
Paperback 24 pages

The Quotable Helen Keller
Paperback 66 pages

The Art of War: Sun Tzu
Paperback 60 pages

The Quotable Shakespeare
Paperback 54 pages

The Quotable Gorucho Marx
Paperback 46 pages