I'd Much Prefer To Write More Quickly.

The Imagination Demands That Life Be Told Slant Because Of Its Need Of Distance.

I Think That Each Of Us Inhabits A Private World That Others Cannot See. The Only Difference Between The Writer And The Reader Is That The Writer Is Able To Dramatise That Private World.

...with A Rush Of Feeling He Felt That This Must Be Happiness. As Soon As The Thought Came To Him, He Fought It Back, Blaming The Whiskey. The Very Idea Was As Dangerous As Presumptive Speech: Happiness Could Not Be Sought Or Worried Into Being, Or Even Fully Grasped; It Should Be Allowed Its Own Slow Pace So That It Passes Unnoticed, If It Ever Comes At All.

Ireland Is A Peculiar Society In The Sense That It Was A Nineteenth Century Society Up To About 1970 And Then It Almost Bypassed The Twentieth Century.

Among Its Many Other Obligations, Fiction Always Has To Be Believable. Life Does Not Have To Suffer Such Constraint, And Much Of What Takes Place Is Believable Only Because It Happens.