And all the time he was enjoying his badness, hugging it to him as though it were a friend, and not caring a bit.

I've felt that if I just used initials nobody would know whether I was a man or a woman, a dog or a tiger. I could hide from view, like a bat on the underside of a branch.

What I want to know is this: Are the stars gold paper or is the gold paper stars?

I was brought up Irish, where there was room for my own private world.

When I was a child, love to me was what the sea is to a fish: something you swim in while you are going about the important affairs of life.

Could it be ... that the hero is one who is willing to set out, take the first step, shoulder something? Perhaps the hero is one who puts his foot upon a path not knowing what he may expect from life but in some way feeling in his bones that life expects something of him.

More and more I’ve become convinced that the great treasure to possess is the unknown.