Reread, rewrite, reread, rewrite. If it still doesn’t work, throw it away.

I enjoy research; in fact research is so engaging that it would be easy to go on for years, and never write the novel at all.

A novel, in the end, is a container, a shape which you are trying to pour your story into.

The poets whom I knew then were all men and all seemed dauntingly sure of themselves - although I am sure that really they were as uncertain as I was.

I can remember being in my pram: children stayed in their prams much longer then than they do now. A big bouncy pram with black covers and a hood with metal clips that could trap your fingers. I was looking up at my sister who was sitting on the pram seat, with her back to me.

The language has got to be fully alive - I can't bear dull, flaccid writing myself and I don't see why any reader should put up with it.

For you where never my blood sister so no more shall I call you little sister