2 p.m. beer nothing matters but flopping on a mattress with cheap dreams and a beer as the leaves die and the horses die and the landladies stare in the halls; brisk the music of pulled shades, a last man's cave in an eternity of swarm and explosion; nothing but the dripping sink, the empty bottle, euphoria, youth fenced in, stabbed and shaven, taught words propped up to die.

I write as a function. Without it I would fall ill and die. It's as much a part of one as the liver or intestine, and just about as glamorous.

Food is good for the nerves and the spirit. Courage comes from the belly – all else is desperation.

I don’t understand people, never will. It looks like I got to travel pretty much alone.

There's no way I can stop writing, it's a form of insanity.

That's your response to everything: drink?" "No, that's my response to nothing.

Before you kill something make sure you have something better to replace it with.