He is solid; immovable, iron-willed. He showed me one day his killing bottle. I'm imprisoned in it. Fluttering against the glass. Because I can see through it I still think I can escape. I have hope. But it's all an illusion. A thick round wall of glass.

Piers is always going on about how he hated Stowe. As if that solves everything, as if to hate something means it can't have affected you.

The great majority of modern third-person narration is "I" narration very thinly disguised.

I am infinitely strange to myself.

Thomas Beecham was a pompous little band-master who stood against everything creative in the art of his time.

Alive. Alive in the way that death is alive.

I think we are just insects, we live a bit and then die and that’s the lot. There’s no mercy in things. There’s not even a Great Beyond. There’s nothing.