The writer's life seethes within but not without.
All novels are experimental.
But what I do I do because I like to do.
Civilised my syphilised yarbles.
The meal was pretentious - a kind of beetroot soup with greasy croutons; pork underdone with loud vulgar cabbage, potato croquettes, tinned peas in tiny jam-tart cases, watery gooseberry sauce; trifle made with a resinous wine, so jammy that all my teeth lit up at once.
With both agents and publishers hungry for bestsellers, literature will have to end up as a cottage industry.