One Of The Reasons I Write Is

Only Bad Writers Think That Their Work Is Really Good.

There Is Something Wonderful About A Death, How Everything Shuts Down, And All The Ways You Thought You Were Vital Are Not Even Vaguely Important. Your Husband Can Feed The Kids, He Can Work The New Oven, He Can Find The Sausages In The Fridge, After All. And His Important Meeting Was Not Important, Not In The Slightest.

I Was Raised In A Very Old Fashioned Ireland Where Women Were Reared To Be Lovely.

I Think Young Children In The Western Middle Classes Are Objects Of Incredible Anxiety.

There Are About As Many Ways To Be Dead As There Are To Be Alive. People Linger In Different Ways, Both Publicly And Privately.