I Hire Tea By The

Gluttony And Sloth, As Worldly Goals, Were Quietly Usurped By Avarice And Lust, Which, Together With Poetry (yes, Poetry), Consumed All My Free Time.

Every Day, The Dispensing Of Existence.... Its Face Is Fierce And Distant And Ancient.

What Did Nabokov And Joyce Have In Common, Apart From The Poor Teeth And The Great Prose? Exile, And Decades Of Near Pauperism.

You Can't Sort Of Write The Novel As If You're Taking Dictation From Heaven.

Unless I Specifically Inform You Otherwise, I'm Always Smoking Another Cigarette.