Nothing Had Happened Yet In

Here We Go Again. Always A Few Drinks, But Sometimes Even Sober, We Play The Unhappiness Game; Endlessly Round And Round. Ding Dong. Tighter And Tighter. On And On. Push Me Pull You. Come Here And I'll Tell You How Much I Hate You. Hang On A Minute While I Leave You. All The While We Know We Are Missing The Point, Whatever The Point Used To Be.

I've Heard People, Usually Writers, Say That No One Wrote A Great Book After Winning The Booker, But I Honestly Did Not Feel Any Big Pressure. The Gathering Did Hang Over Me In That It Was Darker Than I Thought At The Time.

Write Whatever Way You Like. Fiction Is Made Of Words On A Page; Reality Is Made Of Something Else. It Doesn't Matter How "real" Your Story Is, Or How "made Up": What Matters Is Its Necessity.

It Is Very Hard To Trace The Effect Of Words On A Life.

There Are Men Who Would Do Anything, Asleep, And I'm Not Sure What Stops Them When They Wake. I Do Not Know How They Draw The Line.