I Think My Mother Was Very Spiritual.

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

...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.

We Absolutely Believed In Heaven And Hell, Purgatory, And Even Limbo. I Mean, They Were Actually Closer To Us Than Australia Or Canada, That They Were Real Places.

Everything That We Inherit, The Rain, The Skies, The Speech, And Anybody Who Works In The English Language In Ireland Knows That There's The Dead Ghost Of Gaelic In The Language We Use And Listen To And That Those Things Will Reflect Our Irish Identity.

When I Start To Write, Words Have Become Physical Presence. It Was To See If I Could Bring That Private World To Life That Found Its First Expression Through Reading. I Really Dislike The Romantic Notion Of The Artist.