They Thrived On The Rapid

I Feel That, In A Sense, The Writer Knows Nothing Any Longer. He Has No Moral Stance. He Offers The Reader The Contents Of His Own Head, A Set Of Options And Imaginative Alternatives. His Role Is That Of A Scientist, Whether On Safari Or In His Laboratory, Faced With An Unknown Terrain Or Subject. All He Can Do Is To Devise Various Hypotheses And Test Them Against The Facts.

Hell Is Out Of Fashion - Institutional Hells At Any Rate. The Populated Infernos Of The 20th Century Are More Private Affairs, The Gaps Between The Bars Are The Sutures Of One's Own Skull. A Valid Hell Is One From Which There Is A Possibility Of Redemption, Even If This Is Never Achieved, The Dungeons Of An Architecture Of Grace Whose Spires Point To Some Kind Of Heaven. The Institutional Hells Of The Present Century Are Reached With One-way Tickets, Marked Nagasaki And Buchenwald, Worlds Of Terminal Horror Even More Final Than The Grave.

All Through My Career I've Written 1,000 Words A Day - Even If I've Got A Hangover. You've Got To Discipline Yourself If You're Professional. There's No Other Way.

A Ton Of Proust Isn’t Worth An Ounce Of Ray Bradbury.

I Don't Think It's Possible To Touch People's Imagination Today By Aesthetic Means.