All fiction for me is a kind of magic and trickery, a confidence trick, trying to make people believe something is true that isn't.

All the seven deadly sins are self destroying, morbid appetites, but in their early stages at least, lust and gluttony, averice and sloth know some gratification, while anger and pride have power, even though that power eventually destroys itself. Envy is impotent, numbed with fear, never ceasing in its appetite, and it knows no gratification, but endless self torment. It has the ugliness of a trapped rat, which gnaws its own foot in an effort to escape.

Life isn't just to be found, you have to work for it.

I have no concern for the common man except that he should not be so common.

Once a Catholic always a Catholic.

I opened the large central window of my office room to its full on the fine early May morning. Then I stood for a few moments, breathing in the soft, warm air that was charged with the scent of white lilacs below.

The novelist must be his own most harsh critic and also his own most loving admirer and about both he must say nothing.