Talking about Brendan Behan is an easy task. He was a wonderful, irreverent, decent person who delighted his friends and scorched his enemies. The first time I met him he was sitting atop a ladder during his lunch break, drinking from a bottle of Irish whisky and reading a book by Camus. It was about 1950. A friend of mine, Ralph Cusack, knew Brendan and asked me to come along to Harcourt Street, where Brendan was painting a sign on the bridge during some general reconstruction work.
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