Kindness. The most unkind thing of all.

After that dark woman you search for someone who will fit into the irregular corners of your heart.

Irish? In truth I would not want to be anything else. It is a state of mind as well as an actual country. It is being at odds withother nationalities, having quite different philosophy about pleasure, about punishment, about life, and about death. At least it does not leave one pusillanimous.

That is the mystery about writing: it comes out of afflictions, out of the gouged times, when the heart is cut open.

Writers, however mature and wise and eminent, are children at heart.

Wherever there were horses or ponies the mushrooms always sprang up.

Kindness. The most unkind thing of all.