The Labour Party of today has fits of horrors of the very thought of somebody like me might saying that they bought in white Australia. But I believe they did.

There's a story... a legend, about a bird that sings just once in its life. From the moment it leaves its nest, it searches for a thorn tree... and never rests until it's found one. And then it sings... more sweetly than any other creature on the face of the earth. And singing, it impales itself on the longest, sharpest thorn. But, as it dies, it rises above its own agony, to outsing the lark and the nightingale. The thorn bird pays its life for just one song, but the whole world stills to listen, and God in his heaven smiles.

I think explicit love scenes are a turn off unless it's the kind you read with one hand.

I am writing a sequel to The Touch because I want to further explore the Chinese question that I have raised. There will be more about that in a sequel.

That's the purpose of old age... To give us a breathing space before we die, in which to see why we did what we did.

There are no ambitions noble enough to justify breaking someone's heart.

There's a hell of a lot of horny people out there who are not being gratified in the way they should be.