The Bible was a consolation to a fellow alone in the old cell. The lovely thin paper with a bit of matress stuffing in it, if you could get a match, was as good a smoke as I ever tasted.

Behan’s line juxtaposes spiritual “consolation” with the brutal pragmatics of prison life. The Bible, ostensibly a sacred object offered for comfort and moral reform, becomes doubly instrumental: it can soothe loneliness in a cell, but its physical materials—thin pages and improvised stuffing—can also be repurposed for a cigarette when tobacco is scarce. The grim humor underscores deprivation and the ingenuity of prisoners, while also hinting at ambivalence toward institutional piety: the text’s sanctity matters less than its usefulness. At the same time, the opening clause preserves a genuine note of solace, suggesting that even a cynical or desperate reader may still find companionship in scripture.