Something happened when the memoirs of so-called ordinary people, like myself, suddenly hit the bestseller list.

Worse than the ordinary, miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.

He hangs on now, pressing his hand lightly against the wall, below the window, waiting for the familiar arrow of pain. Only there is none. An oddly pleasant swell of memory, a wave of warmth flooding over him, sliding back, slowly. It is a first

Literature is the art of discovering something extraordinary about ordinary people, and saying with ordinary words something extraordinary.

I look for something that is highly unusual, involving ordinary people caught in extraordinary situations.

Depending on the reality one must face, one may prefer to opt for illusion.