Any one could write a book,” said the taxi driver. ” Yes, they could, but they DON’T,” said Maeve Binchy.
Eve showed Aidan how to rake the range. “I think when we’re married we might have something more modern,” he grumbled. “No, surely with the eight children we can have them stoking it, going up the chimney even.
Who knows what light housework means? One nun’s light could be another nun’s penal servitude.
Her life was like her house – a colorful fantasy where anything was possible if you wanted it badly enough.
A silly idea about a book of blessings couldn’t really work. Not seriously.
The day she realized that there were many ways to go, and Mother’s was only one way. Not necessarily the right way, and not at all the wrong way. Just one of the many ways ahead.
I try to make my characters kind of ordinary, somebody that anybody could be. Because we’ve all had loves, perhaps love and loss, people can relate to my characters.
I don’t have ugly ducklings turning into swans in my stories. I have ugly ducklings turning into confident ducks.
Happiness is in our own hearts. I have no regrets of anything in the past. I’m totally cheerful and happy, and I think that a lot of your attitude is not in the circumstances you find yourself in, but in the circumstances you make for yourself.
I’m an escapist kind of writer.
We are all the heroes and heroines of our own lives. Our love stories are amazingly romantic; our losses and betrayals and disappointments are gigantic in our own minds.
I have no idea whether what I write will be of the remotest interest to anyone else. Some mornings when I read what I wrote the previous day I think it’s fairly entertaining; other times I think it’s pure rubbish. The main thing is not to take any notice, not to be elated or upset, just keep going.