There’s a reason humans peg-out around eighty: prose fatigue. It looks like organ failure or cancer or stroke but it’s really just the inability to carry on clambering through the assault course of mundane cause and effect. If we ask Sheila then we can’t ask Ron. If I have the kippers now then it’s quiche for tea. Four score years is about all the ifs and thens you can take. Dementia’s the sane realisation you just can’t be doing with all that anymore.

Nicotine and alcohol embraced in my system like long-parted siblings, grateful to me for reuniting them.

When you're a kid it's people's cruelty that makes you cry, then when you're an adult it's their kindness.

Just because life's meaningless doesn't mean we can't experience it meaningfully.

The first thing to say about Eve is that she was a big improvement on the Adam design, or that Adam was an extremely misguided variation on the Eve design. (Consider testicles. Two concentrated nuclei of absolute vulnerability. Where? Dangling between the legs. I rest my case.)

I'm too conceited for therapy.

No artist knows everything... but since every artist knows more than he can tell, all art is lying by omission.