It is the earliest dream that I can remember, earlier than the witch at the corner of the nursery passage, this dream of something outside that has got to come in. The witch, like the masked dancers, has form, but this is simply power, a force exerted on a door, an influence that drifted after me upstairs and pressed against windows.

One has no talent. I have no talent. It's just a question of working, of being willing to put in the time.

Like some wines our love could neither mature nor travel.

Thrillers are like life, more like life than you are.

I wish sometimes you had a few bad motives, you might understand a little more about human beings.

I've caught belief like a disease. I've fallen into belief like I fell in love.

What have we all got to expect that we allow ourselves to be so lined with disappointment?