He was a lovely man in many ways. But he kept on insisting on forgiving me when there was nothing to forgive.

At the best of times, spring hurts depressives.

The clown may be the source of mirth, but - who shall make the clown laugh?

Cats of all kinds weave in and out of the text; Burroughs has clearly taken to them in a big way in his old age and seems torn between a fear they will betray him into sentimentality and a resigned acceptance that a man can't be ironic all the time.

The end of all stories, even if the writer forebears to mention it, is death, which is where time stops short. Sheherezade knew this, which is why she kept on spinning another story out of the bowels of the last one, never coming to a point where she could say: "This is the end." Because it would have been.

I don't really think that writers, even great writers, are prophets, or sages, or Messiah-like figures; writing is a lonely, sedentary occupation and a touch of megalomania can be comforting around five on a November afternoon when you haven't seen anybody all day.

The only time I ever iron the sheets or make meringues is when there is an ... urgent deadline in the offing.