People Tend To Think Of

I Think In Retrospect That All Those 'alternative'modes Of Living Were Little More Than Exercises In Arrested Development.

From Time To Time, As If Heaven-sent To Annoy, Someone Will Ask Me If I'm Self-disciplined When It Comes To My Work. I Usually Look Witheringly At Them And Snarl, 'what Do You Think?' I Mean, How Do You Imagine Anyone Writes A Quarter Of A Million Words A Year For Publication?

To Attempt To Write Seriously Is Always, I Feel, To Fail - The Disjunction Between My Beautifully Sonorous, Accurate And Painfully Affecting Mental Content, And The Leaden, Halting Sentences On The Page Always Seems A Dreadful Falling Short.

The Novelist, Quite Rightly, Fears The Psychoanalyst As Both An Enemy And A Usurper.

You May Have Gathered That I Am Not The Most Cheerful Of Revellers - Some Characterise Me As The Death And Soullessness Of Any Party But It Wasn't Always So, Believe Me.