One Could Argue That Most

The Truth Will Set You Free. Either That Or It'll Get You A Punch In The Nose.

I Have Always Been Accused Of Taking The Things I Love – Football, Of Course, But Also Books And Records – Much Too Seriously, And I Do Feel A Kind Of Anger When I Hear A Bad Record, Or When Someone Is Lukewarm About A Book That Means A Lot To Me. Perhaps It Was These Desperate, Bitter Men In The West Stand At Arsenal Who Taught Me How To Get Angry In This Way; And Perhaps It Is Why I Earn Some Of My Living As A Critic – Maybe It’s Those Voices I Can Hear When I Write. ‘you’re A Wanker, X.’ ‘the Booker Prize? The Booker Prize? They Should Give That To Me For Having To Read You.

Anyway, Who Lives A Rich And Beautiful Life That I Know? It's No Longer Possible, Surely, For Anyone Who Works For A Living, Or Lives In A City, Or Shops In A Supermarket, Or Watches Tv, Or Reads A Newspaper, Or Drives A Car, Or Eats Frozen Pizzas. A Nice Life, Possibly, With A Huge Slice Of Luck And A Little Spare Cash. And Maybe Even A Good Life If... Well, Let's Not Go Into All That. But Rich And Beautiful Lives Seem To Be A Discontinued Line.

Do You Ever Do That Thing Where You Lie In Bed And You Can't Sleep So You End Up Writing Out Recent Conversation You've Had? So They Look Like A Play?' Well You Should. It's Fun. I Keep Them. Look Through Them, Sometimes.

Books Are, Let's Face It, Better Than Everything Else. If We Played Cultural Fantasy Boxing League, And Made Books Go Fifteen Rounds In The Ring Against The Best That Any Other Art Form Had To Offer, Then Books Would Win Pretty Much Every Time.