All novels are experimental.

If I had died it would have been even better for you political bratchnies, would it not, pretending and treacherous droogs as you are.' But all that came out was er er er.

Language exists less to record the actual than to liberate the imagination.

As we are all solipsists, and all die, the world dies with us. Only very minor literature aims at apocalypse.

And, my brothers, it was real satisfaction to me to waltz-left two three, right two three-and carve left cheeky and right cheeky, so that like two curtains of blood seemed to pour out at the same time, one on either side of his fat filthy oily snout in the winter starlight.

With both agents and publishers hungry for bestsellers, literature will have to end up as a cottage industry.

Without class differences, England would cease to be the living theatre it is.