London is like no other city I know in its ability to become beautiful. You can suddenly turn a corner and there are odd moments - of light, of weather.

I am struck by the way people behave on the Tube. They look at each other beadily and inquisitively, and something goes on in their thoughts which must be equivalent to the way dogs and other animals, when they meet, sniff each other's arses and nuzzle each other's fur.

Novels, in my experience, are slow in coming, and once I've begun them I know I have years rather than months of work ahead of me.

Happiness quells thought. And work quells thought.

How quick and rushing life can sometimes seem, when at the same time it's so slow and sweet and everlasting.

Part of the very impulse of writing for me is actually wanting to get away from myself.

I can do hieroglyphics in the margin. There are days when I really enjoy the flow of ink. I mean, nice pen, ink straight on to the page.