Dostoevsky is such a bad writer it is hard to take him seriously as a novelist, though he is a wonderful philosopher.

We artists love to talk tough, but we're just as sentimental as everyone else when it comes down to it.

The secret of survival is a defective imagination.

Throughout the 1960s and 1970s devoted Beckett readers greeted each successively shorter volume from the master with a mixture of awe and apprehensiveness; it was like watching a great mathematician wielding an infinitesimal calculus, his equations approaching nearer and still nearer to the null point.

I don't own a Kindle, no. I love books, they are beautiful objects.

Everything we do is tinged with the knowledge that this may be the last time that we will do this, and that makes what we're doing incredibly sweet.

What is money, after all? Almost nothing, when one has a sufficiency of it.