The book I am best known for, or only known for, is a novel I am prepared to repudiate: written a quarter of a century ago, a jeu d'esprit knocked off for money in three weeks, it became known as the raw material for a film which seemed to glorify sex and violence. The film made it easy for readers of the book to misunderstand what it was about, and the misunderstanding will pursue me till I die. I should not have written the book because of this danger of misinterpretation.

Fumbling for a word is everybody's birthright.

I conclude that there is as much sense in nonsense as there is nonsense in sense.

Every grain of experience is food for the greedy growing soul of the artist.

The next morning I woke up at oh eight oh oh hours, my brothers, and as I still felt shagged and fagged and fashed and bashed and my glazzies were stuck together real horrorshow with sleepglue, I thought I would not go to school.

I've always felt that English women had to be approached in a sisterly manner, rather than an erotic manner.

...the essential intention is the real sin. A man who cannot choose ceases to be a man.