
Ireland starts for me with the end of 'The Dead,' which my father read to me from his desk in his basement office in New Albany, Ind.

Thinking you're a genius is death.

The city of Cork - the urban center, where all the shops and bars and everything are - is actually an island, a river island.

A good writer wants from us - or has no right to ask more than - intelligence, good faith and time.

It's just amazing the lengths people go to, to be thought of as special.

They are trying to live, but they have no room to breathe. So they try harder and breathe less.

What's old doesn't need to be old-fashioned. It gets reborn.

Every unhappy family is periodically ransacked by joy.

We live in such constant nearness to the abyss of past time that the moment is endlessly sucked into.

Reporting provides reminders that things are always more complicated than you think.

As the planet warms, evolution speeds. We've known this for a long time.

Even the great anxiety of writing can be stilled for the eight minutes it takes to eat a pineapple popsicle.

Life before birth is a dream, life after death is another dream. What comes between is only a mirage of the dreams.

Not watching TV gets me in a lot of trouble in my household because my wife and daughter have a lot of shows they like to watch.