Così Rosemary Behan ricordò la passione dello zio nel 2001 sulle pagine del Telegraph:
New York has been violently aware, since 2 September, of the arrival of a bawdy, iconoclastic, ex-Irish revolutionary, ballad-singing, jig-dancing, stocky, rumpled, wild-haired, thirty-seven-year-old Dublin playwright named Brendan Behan. Met by reporters when he arrived at the airport, converged upon at his Algonquin Hotel suite, pursued in Third Avenue bars and followed on his rambles along the streets of New York, Mr Behan hasn’t stopped talking since he stepped off the plane.
Thus The New York Times reported the beginning of Brendan Behan‘s love affair with the city in 1960.
When asked what he would most like to see in Spain he had replied Franco’s funeral. When asked what he thought of Canada he said it would be all right when it was finished. But he said New York was the greatest city in the world. It was “the place where you are least likely to get a bite from a wild sheep”.