All art at a certain level is entertainment. We go to a tragedy by Sophocles to be entertained.

The effect of prizes on one's career - if that is what to call it - is considerable, since they give one more clout with publishers and more notoriety among journalists. The effect on one's writing, however, is nil - otherwise, one would be in deep trouble.

For memory, we use our imagination. We take a few strands of real time and carry them with us, then like an oyster we create a pearl around them.

I have this fantasy. I'm walking past a bookshop and I click my fingers and all my books go blank. So I can start again and get it right.

If they give me the bloody prize, why can't they say nice things about me?

Art is amoral, whether we accept this or not; it does not take sides. The finest fictions are cold at heart.

Perhaps all of life is no more than a long preparation for the leaving of it.