If there’s no pleasure in it, why not quit?

Because I have things that will not go away. Some of them are true, some slowly become imagined. They do not disappear just because I write them. If I don’t write them, I find that suddenly I am writing them. They make their way into sentences and I feel a need to finish what I began, to formalise it and then publicise it. I emphasise that it heals nothing. Quitting would be like deciding never to listen to music again. It would be mad, unnecessary. I also have sought fame as a novelist – the phrase is V.S. Naipaul’s - and I presume that the urge for that is essentially neurotic. I don’t think we have a right to enjoy our neuroses; in fact I believe that we have a duty not to. But we cannot walk away from ourselves. Who else is there to become?

What is your writing routine?

I try and finish everything I start. Often I work all day and all evening. I have no routine. Sometimes I do nothing, but not very often.

You’re a prolific writer. You’ve already written six novels, a book of stories and more than 10 works of non-fiction and you’ve edited four additional major works and you write for the LRB and the New York Review of Books and you are art critic for Esquire… and that’s not all. What does doing nothing mean? Could you say a little bit about what you do when you’re taking a break from writing?

I have a few close friends and I see them. But things have narrowed. I am a member of the Arts Council in Ireland, and have just agreed with the government to stay on for five more years. When I am in Dublin, I can spend two whole days a week in the Council when things are busy. But I try and work in the evening of those days. I don’t go to movies now because I don’t like most movies, and I don’t do sport unless I am in Spain where as I said I swim and play tennis. Dublin is a very quiet city, with not much social life, despite its reputation.

What do you enjoy most about your life as a writer?

The money. I never knew there would be money. It is such a surprise. And I like not having to leave the house in the morning. Yes, the money.

Is there nothing else you enjoy about your life as a writer?

It is not for enjoyment. It has nothing to do with enjoyment. I like selling foreign rights, but that feeling would last no longer than 20 minutes.

Do you avoid talking about your writing (before, during of after a work-in-progress) or do you find being interrogated (or interrogating yourself) useful?

I often tell friends what I have in mind for a book and they listen patiently. I was interrogated once in 1975 by the Special Branch of the Irish police force and one other time by the British police. I didn’t enjoy it at all or find it useful. Nor did they much, I have to say.

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