A funny thing happens when the world turns, as it turned for us on the night we burned the British embassy down. You wake up the next morning and carry on.

I’ve heard people, usually writers, say that no one wrote a great book after winning the Booker, but I honestly did not feel any big pressure. ‘The Gathering’ did hang over me in that it was darker than I thought at the time.

Far below were the limestone flats they called the Flaggy Shore; grey rocks under a grey sky, and there were days when the sea was a glittering grey and your eyes could not tell if it was dusk or dawn, your eyes were always adjusting. It was like the rocks took the light and hid it away. And that was the thing about Boolavaun, it was a place that made itself hard to see.

There are men who would do anything, asleep, and I’m not sure what stops them when they wake. I do not know how they draw the line.

If you grow up in Ireland and read books then you really are obliged to attempt your own some time. It is not exactly a choice. I still don’t know if I am a writer. Believe me, there are days when I have my doubts.

Dublin was a small town in those days, even the bullies were small, but the gossip was stupendous, and I know it wasn’t healthy but I do miss it. We have all got very disconnected since, which is to say, sane.

Because a mother’s love is God’s greatest joke.

Because that is what your babies do, when they grow. They turn around and say it is all your fault.

Sometimes I will spend two or three days not speaking to anyone outside of the immediate family when they come home, and then I find that I’ve been emailing like fury. Once you give in to that silence, it’s quite nice.

I never wanted to be mainstream as a writer, but look at what’s happened.