I'm Irish, yeah, but I don't need to get up on a soapbox about it.

There's always a host of voices you're inspired by. I love Don DeLillo, and I love Isaac Bashevis Singer, and I love Beckett, and I love Pinter. He's one of the funniest voices in English literature since Dickens.

When things are going well, I can't write fast enough to keep up with my mind. Writing walks, speech runs and talk flies. Other times, though, it's like fishing.

Adulthood feels like walking around in the desert with a bag over your head, being bumped into by people who rob you as they bore you.

I don't see teenagers anymore. I see... I see youths. Slumped S shapes in their hoodies, all huddled round a bin of burning grannies. All texting eachother because they've given up on speech.

You know what you are? You're a beard with an idiot hanging off it.

People will kill you over time, and how they'll kill you is with tiny, harmless phrases, like 'be realistic.'