shadows of love, inebriations of love, foretastes of love, trickles of love, but never yet the one true love.

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

I am obsessive, also I am industrious. Besides, the time when you are most alive and most aware is in childhood and one is trying to recapture that heightened awareness.

My hand does the work and I dont have to think; in fact, were I to think, it would stop the flow. Its like a dam in the brain that bursts.

Recollection is not something that I can summon up, it simply comes and I am the servant of it.

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

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.