I've had aunts and uncles who not only haven't read my books but could hardly believe that I was a writer.

I can't remember a time when I wasn't trying to get something down on paper.

Everybody sins, Francis. The terrible thing is that we love our sins. We love the thing that makes us evil.

I don't like to think in terms of writing ten or twelve pages a day. Usually I'm writing a scene, and it's always with the idea, "I wonder what is going to happen." Or sometimes I write about something that affected me emotionally the day before and that I don't want to lose. I'm very unorganized at first; but finally it comes into a structure where consciously I'm working on a novel per se.

Archie became absolutely still, afraid that the rapid beating of his heart might betray his sudden knowledge, the proof of what he'd always suspected, not only of Brother Leon but most grownups, most adults: they were vulnerable, running scared, open to invasion.

Family life was wonderful. The streets were bleak. The playgrounds were bleak. But home was always warm. My mother and father had a great relationship. I always felt 'safe' there.

And he did see--that life was rotten, that there were no heroes, really, and that you couldn't trust anybody, not even yourself.