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

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.

Where I went, no one could follow. Yet someone managed to hold my hand.

The white May blossom swooned slowly into the open mouth of the grave.

Writing keeps me at my desk, constantly trying to write a perfect sentence. It is a great privilege to make one's living from writing sentences. The sentence is the greatest invention of civilization. To sit all day long assembling these extraordinary strings of words is a marvelous thing. I couldn't ask for anything better. It's as near to godliness as I can get.

And indeed nothing had happened, a momentous nothing, just another of the great world's shrugs of indifference.

I'm full of self-doubt. I doubt everything I do. Everything I do is a failure.