I still think most writers are just kids who refuse to grow up. We're still playing imaginary games, with our imaginary friends.

No matter how many awards you've won or how many sales you've got, come the next book it's still a blank sheet of paper and you're still panicking like hell that you've got nothing new to say.

I still think most writers are just kids who refuse to grow up. We're still playing imaginary games, with our imaginary friends.

Rebus was eating breakfast in the canteen and wishing there was more caffeine in the coffee, or more coffee in the coffee come to that.

[About a tiresome colleague]: He could bore for Scotland.

From this height the sleeping city seems like a child's construction, a model which has refused to be constrained by imagination. The volcanic plug might be black Plasticine, the castle balanced solidly atop it a skewed rendition of crenellated building bricks. The orange street lamps are crumpled toffee-wrappers glued to lollipop sticks.

War created bizarre allies, while peace itself could be divisive.