I work continuously within the shadow of failure. For every novel that makes it to my publisher's desk, there are at least five or six that died on the way. And even with the ones I do finish, I think of all the ways they might have been better.

Who wanted to creep along in comfort when there was one chance in a thousand of flying?

One is taught by experience to put a premium on those few people who can appreciate you for what you are.

What did a few ripples in the flesh matter when, all too soon, now or later, that flesh would be making its return journey to dust?

I confess, right at the start, to the doubts - and sometimes outright dreads - that go with me as I climb the stairs to my study in the morning, coffee mug in hand: I have to admit to the habitual apprehension mixed with a sort of reverence, as I light the incense . . . and wonder: what is going to happen today? Will anything happen? Will the angel come today?

I work continuously within the shadow of failure. For every novel that makes it to my publisher's desk, there are at least five or six that died on the way. And even with the ones I do finish, I think of all the ways they might have been better.

Actors between plays are like ghosts looking for bodies to inhabit.