I must say it's pretty dreary living in the American Age - unless you're an American of course. Perhaps all our children will be Americans.

Writers don't need love; all they require is money.

Heroes, whatever high ideas we may have of them, are mortal and not divine. We are all as God made us and many of us much worse.

There will be a quick rash of hairy American filth, but it shouldn't threaten the existence of decent, serious British filth.

Let's pretend that we're human beings and that we're actually alive.

Oh heavens, how I long for a little ordinary human enthusiasm. Just enthusiasm - that's all. I want to hear a warm, thrilling voice cry out Hallelujah! Hallelujah! I'm alive!

Here we are, we're alone in the universe, there's no God, it just seems that it all began by something as simple as sunlight striking on a piece of rock. And here we are. We've only got ourselves. Somehow, we've just got to make a go of it. We've only ourselves.