I'm quite interested in the absolute roots of narrative, why we tell stories at all: where the monsters come from.

I never wanted to be mainstream as a writer, but look at what's happened.

Here we go again. Always a few drinks, but sometimes even sober, we play the unhappiness game; endlessly round and round. Ding dong. Tighter and tighter. On and on. Push me pull you. Come here and i'll tell you how much i hate you. Hang on a minute while i leave you. All the while we know we are missing the point, whatever the point used to be.

I do wish I could write like some of the American women, who can be clever and heartfelt and hopeful; people like Lorrie Moore and Jennifer Egan. But Ireland messed me up too much, I think, so I can't.

Sometimes I will spend two or three days not speaking to anyone outside of the immediate family when they come home, and then I find that I've been emailing like fury. Once you give in to that silence, it's quite nice.

When you find yourself alone, or in a transition, you dream more. These are also the times when you read books.

I can't think of anything you might say about Irish people that is absolutely true.