In every question and every remark tossed back and forth between lovers who have not played out the last fugue, there is one question and it is this: Is there someone new?

... a country encapsulates our childhood and those lanes, byres, fields, flowers, insects, suns, moons and stars are forever reoccurring.

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.

History is said to be written by the victors. Fiction, by contrast, is largely the work of injured bystanders.

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

... we have so many voices in us, how do we know which ones to obey?

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