Makes Of Men Date, Like Makes Of

Writers Do Not Find Subjects: Subjects Find Them. There Is Not So Much A Search As A State Of Open Susceptibility.

Fashion Seems To Exist For An Abstract Person Who Is Not You Or Me.

At The Age Of Twelve I Was Finding The World Too Small: It Appeared To Me Like A Dull, Trim Back Garden, In Which Only Trivial Games Could Be Played.

Art Is For [the Irish] Inseparable From Artifice: Of That, The Theatre Is The Home. Possibly, It Was England Made Me A Novelist.

First Love, With Its Frantic Haughty Imagination, Swings Its Object Clear Of The Everyday, Over The Rut Of Living, Making Him All Looks, Silences, Gestures, Attitudes, A Burning Phrase With No Context.