There Are Men Who Would

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

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

I Write Anywhere - When I Have An Idea It’s Hard Not To Write. I Used To Be Kind Of Precious About Where I Wrote. Everything Had To Be Quiet And I Couldn’t Be Disturbed, It Really Filled My Day.

We Have Lost The Art Of Public Tenderness, These Small Gestures Of Wiping And Washing; We Have Forgotten How Abjectly The Body Welcomes A Formal Touch.

Belief Needs Something Terrible To Make It Work, I Find--blood, Nails, A Bit Of Anguish.