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.

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.

Yes, success is everything. Failure is more common. Most achieve a sort of middling thing, but fortunately one's situation is always blurred, you never know absolutely quite where you are.

He is mad about being small when you were big, but no, that's not it, he is mad about being helpless when you were powerful, but no, not that either, he is mad about being contingent when you were necessary, not quite it... he is insane because when he loved you, you didn't notice.

The death of God left the angels in a strange position.

There's not a strong autobiographical strain in my fiction. A few bits of fact here and there.

There was no particular point at which I stopped being promising.