I happen to write by hand. I don't even type.

I can't think of anybody worse to live with.

Out of date, perhaps, but who wasn't these days? Out of date, but loyal to his own time. At a certain moment, after all, every man chooses: will he go forward, will he go back? There was nothing dishounorable in not being blown about by every little modern wind. Better to have worth, to entrench, to be an oak of one's own generation.

What else has a journalist to do these days, after all, but report life's miseries?

I move my lips when I read -- I'm painfully slow -- so I like really good English.

As our Governments spin, lie and lose their credibility, the electorate simply shrugs and looks the other way.

[My novels] introduce levels of intelligence ... moral doubt [and] self-doubt, which may not pertain [to real-world espionage].