The Booker Prize Is A

There Are Times, They Occur With Increasing Frequency Nowadays, When I Seem To Know Nothing, When Everything I Know Seems To Have Fallen Out Of My Mind Like A Shower Of Rain, And I Am Gripped For A Moment In Paralysed Dismay, Waiting For It All To Come Back But With No Certainty That It Will.

The Novel Is Resilient, And So Are Novelists.

When I Finish A Sentence, After Much Labor, It's Finished. A Certain Point Comes At Which You Can't Do Any More Work On It Because You Know It Will Kill The Sentence.

...being Alone With Him Was Like Being In A Room Which Someone Had Just Violently Left

He Knows That After Him Everything Will Continue On Much As Before, Except That There Will Be A Minuscule Absence, A Barely Detective Gap In The So-called Grand Scheme, One Unit Fewer Now. Or Not Even That, Not Even An Empty Space Where He Once Was, For All Will Rush Immediately To Fill That Vacuum. Pft. Gone. Recollections Of Him Will Remain In The Minds Of Others For A While, But Presently Those Others Too Will Die And His Few Relics With Them. And Then All Will Be Dark.