The Irish are a remarkable people. By that, I mean other people often make remarks about them. Remarks such as "Hey, that's my bicycle!", or "That's the one, officer. He did it." But of course I'm joking. The Irish have many extraordinary talents. They are unsurpassed in the arts of literature and story-telling, and when they sing they will make you cry for losses you don't understand but which need no understanding to be real. They are master brewers and distillers. They can wipe the morning dew from blades of clover in a green field, work the magic of their people on it and then pour out a glass of golden malt which seems made from the days of youth and the first kiss you ever had. They are singular weavers of language. When an Irishman speaks, his words cavort gleefully off his tongue and dance a mad jig with the truth, spinning it about and dressing it in such finery that it becomes an uncertain princess. The Irish love words like they love their mothers and use them like poets do. There are no people so romantic as the Irish, because you cannot understand love without understanding loss and few have lost so much as they have. That is why, when the Irish love, they love for all time and for no tomorrows. There are no people quite like the Irish. They are made of the earth and wind and rain, the rolling sea and the tears of history.