The 'good' mother, with her fixed smile, her rigidity, her goody-goody outlook, her obsession with unnecessary hygiene, is in fact a fool. It is the 'bad' mother, unafraid of a joke and a glass of wine, richly self-expressive, scornful of suburban values, who is, in reality, good.

Human beings have a need, generally, to destroy things. The Freudian principle of civilisation is correct. There's always, always a difference between the family image and the reality.

I'm a novelist, not a social scientist or a commentator.

You could time a suburban story by your watch: it lasts as long as it takes a small furry animal that's lonely to find friends, or a small furry animal that's lost to find its parents; it lasts as long as a quick avowal of love; it lasts precisely as long as the average parent is disposed on a Tuesday night to spend reading aloud to children.

Divorce also entails the beginning of a supposition that that familial reality might have obstructed one's ability to perceive others.

Help is dangerous because it exists outside the human economy: the only payment for help is gratitude.

I'm waiting for the day when my children cease to find my domestic propriety reassuring and actually find it annoying.