Reading Is Untidy, Discursive And

The Days Weren't Long Enough For The Reading She Wanted To Do.

...she Felt About Reading What Some Writers Felt About Writing: That It Was Impossible Not To Do It And That At This Late Stage Of Her Life She Had Been Chosen To Read As Others Were Chosen To Write.

If You Find Yourself Born In Barnsley And Then Set Your Sights On Being Virginia Woolf It Is Not Going To Be Roses All The Way.

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.

At The Drabber Moments Of My Life (swilling Some Excrement From The Steps, For Instance, Or Rooting With A Bent Coat-hanger Down A Blocked Sink) Thoughts Occur Like 'i Bet Tom Stoppard Doesn't Have To Do This' Or There Is No Doubt David Hare Would Have Deputed This To An Underling.'