The Third Policeman

by Flann O'Brien

All people have names of one kind or another. Some are arbitrary labels related to the appearance of the person, some represent purely genealogical associations but most of them afford some clue as to the parents of the person named and confer a certain advantage in the execution of legal documents.

‘The first beginnings of wisdom,’ he said, ‘is to ask questions but never to answer any.

‘Your talk,’ I said, ‘is surely the handiwork of wisdom because not one word of it do I understand.’

if you lived here for a few days and gave full play to your observation and inspection, you would know how certain the sureness of certainty is.’

It is peculiar that when one expects some horrible incalculable and devastating thing which does not materialize, one is more disappointed than relieved.

When I awoke again two thoughts came into my head so closely together that they seemed to be stuck to one another; I could not be sure which came first and it was hard to separate them and examine them singly. One was a happy thought about the weather, the sudden brightness of the day that had been vexed earlier. The other was suggesting to me that it was not the same day at all but a different one and maybe not even the next day after the angry one.

The sun was in the neighbourhood also, distributing his enchantment unobtrusively, colouring the sides of things that were unalive and livening the hearts of living things.