All The Effort Went Into

But Most Men Regard Their Life As A Poem That Women Threaten. They May Not Have Two Spondees To Rub Together But They Still Want To Pen Their Saga Untrammelled By Life-threatening Activities Like Trailing Round Sainsbury's, Emptying The Dishwasher Or Going To The Nativity Play.

What I'm Above All Primarily Concerned With Is The Substance Of Life, The Pith Of Reality. If I Had To Sum Up My Work, I Suppose That's It Really: I'm Taking The Pith Out Of Reality.

History Is A Commentary On The Various And Continuing Incapabilities Of Men. What Is History? History Is Women Following Behind With The Bucket.

Books Are Not About Passing Time. They're About Other Lives. Other Worlds. Far From Wanting Time To Pass, One Just Wishes One Had More Of It. If One Wanted To Pass The Time One Could Go To New Zealand.

Kafka Could Never Have Written As He Did Had He Lived In A House. His Writing Is That Of Someone Whose Whole Life Was Spent In Apartments, With Lifts, Stairwells, Muffled Voices Behind Closed Doors, And Sounds Through Walls. Put Him In A Nice Detached Villa And He'd Never Have Written A Word.