Death in its way comes just as much of a surprise as birth.

There was I, devouring books and yet allowing a man who had never read a book to walk me home for a bit of harmless fumbling on the front steps.

I knew I had done something awful. I had killed love, before I even knew the enormity of what love meant.

What matters is the imaginative truth.

I was lonelier than I should be, for a woman in love, or half in love.

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

Writing is the product of a deeply disturbed psyche, and by no means therapeutic.