We are what we have been told about ourselves. We are the sum of the messages we have received. The true messages. The false messages.

Now, here is the point about the self: it is insatiable. It is always, always hankering. It is what you might call rapacious to a fault. The great flaming mouth to the thing is never in this world going to be stuff full.

I don’t think you can talk about progress in art—movement, but not progress.

Is death that which gives meaning to life? And I said, no, life is that which gives meaning to life.

I think writers like old cities and are made very nervous by new cities.

Is death that which gives meaning to life?

Well chaps first I'd like to say a few vile things more or less at random, not only because it is expected of me but also because I enjoy it.