And lucky indeed is the writer who has grown up in Ireland, for the English spoken there is so amusing and musical. (“How to Write with Style”. Essay, 1985)

When a man becomes a writer, I think he takes on a sacred obligation to produce beauty and enlighenment and comfort at top speed

A writer off-guard since the materials with which he works are so dangerous can expect agony as quick as a thunderclap.

Sculptors feel that somebody else is using their hands, that they couldn’t possibly be doing this.

Nothing ever really ends. That’s the horrible part of being in the short-story business—you have to be a real expert on ends. Nothing in real life ends. ‘Millicent at last understands.’ Nobody ever understands.

I propose that every person out of work be required to submit a book report before he or she gets his or her welfare check.