Writers are always anxious, always on the run--from the telephone, from responsibilities, from the distractions of the world.

Love . . . is like nature, but in reverse; first it fruits, then it flowers, then it seems to wither, then it goes deep, deep down into its burrow, where no one sees it, where it is lost from sight, and ultimately people die with that secret buried inside their souls.

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

What we forgot as children is that our parents are children, also. The child in them has not been satisfied or met or loved, often.

We hide the truer part of ourselves when we love.

It was the first time that I came face to face with madness and feared it and was fascinated by it.

I'm an Irish Catholic and I have a long iceberg of guilt.