It's so easy for propaganda to work, and dissent to be mocked.

The weasel under the cocktail cabinet.

I hate brandy...it stinks of modern literature.

Apart from the known and the unknown, what else is there?

The past is what you remember, imagine you remember, convince yourself you remember, or pretend you remember.

There's a tradition in British intellectual life of mocking any non-political force that gets involved in politics, especially within the sphere of the arts and the theatre.

I think we communicate only too well, in our silence, in what is unsaid, and that what takes place is a continual evasion, desperate rearguard attempts to keep ourselves to ourselves. Communication is too alarming. To enter into someone else's life is too frightening. To disclose to others the poverty within us is too fearsome a possibility.