Everyone believes that I was an enigmatic Irish writer who, for reasons unknown, wrote in French. Everybody thinks that I am responsible for great literature like Waiting for Godot, Krapp's Last Tape or The Unnamable. It's just not true. None of that is true. All lies. All Bullshit. How I lied through my teeth! Me, I'm just and old vampire drunk who received the Dark Gift by accident one night while sharing too many bottles of absinthe with my buddy, Al Jarry.
That's a role of the dice for you! My mother was so dumb that she gave birth to an accidental vampire!
I'm afraid it was my friend Hieronymus (also a friend of Gerard's, apparently) who really wrote all those profound plays.
Click on my nose.