I was surprised by my daughter's generation and how they were rebelling against the '70s idea that sex was perfect and it should be sought.

If, every day, I dare to remember that I am here on loan, that this house, this hillside, these minutes are all leased to me, not given, I will never despair.

Without the gods, how would I sing?' I asked. With your own voice,' he said.

I went for years not finishing anything. Because, of course, when you finish something you can be judged...I had poems which were re-written so many times I suspect it was just a way of avoiding sending them out.

We all have fantasies about sex that are more perfect than anything in reality.

Writers tend to be addicted to houses ... We work at home, indulging the agoraphobia endemic to our kind. We are immersed in our surroundings to an almost morbid degree.

the only people worth writing about are those about whom the last word cannot be said.