A writer's life is a highly vulnerable, almost naked activity. We don't have to weep about that. The writer makes his choice and is stuck with it. But it is true to say that you are open to all the winds, some of them icy indeed. You are out on your own, out on a limb. You find no shelter, no protection - unless you lie - in which case of course you have constructed your own protection and, it could be argued, become a politician.

This particular nurse said, Cancer cells are those which have forgotten how to die. I was so struck by this statement.

I can't really articulate what I feel.

It’s very difficult to feel contempt for others when you see yourself in the mirror.

One is and is not in the centre of the maelstrom of it all.

All that happens is that the destruction of human beings - unless they're Americans - is called collateral damage.

When you lead a life of scholarship you can't be bothered with the humorous realities, you know, tits, that kind of thing.