For A Small Island [great

One Thing Should Be Put Firmly. Where People Have Commented On That Novel [the Paper Men], They Generally Criticize The Poor Academic, Rick L. Tucker, Who Is Savaged By The Author, Wilfred Barclay. I Don't Think People Have Noticed That I Have Been Far Ruder About Barclay Than I Have Been About Tucker. Tucker Is A Fool, But Barclay Is A Swine. The Author Really Gets His Come-uppance.

Percival Was Mouse-coloured And Had Not Been Very Attractive Even To His Mother.

Novelists Do Not Write As Birds Sing, By The Push Of Nature. It Is Part Of The Job That There Should Be Much Routine And Some Daily Stuff On The Level Of Carpentry.

Among The Virtues And Vices That Make Up The British Character, We Have One Vice, At Least, That Americans Ought To View With Sympathy. For They Appear To Be The Only People Who Share It With Us. I Mean Our Worship Of The Antique. I Do Not Refer To Beauty Or Even Historical Association. I Refer To Age, To A Quantity Of Years.

A Crowd Of Grade-three Thinkers, All Shouting The Same Thing, All Warming Their Hands At The Fire Of Their Own Prejudices, Will Not Thank You For Pointing Out The Contradictions In Their Beliefs. Man Is A Gregarious Animal, And Enjoys Agreement As Cows Will Graze All The Same Way On The Side Of A Hill.