Asking a writer what he thinks about criticism is like asking a lamppost what it feels about dogs.

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.

George Bernard Shaw writes like a Pakistani who has learned English when he was twelve years old in order to become an accountant.

The British public has always had an unerring taste for ungifted amateurs.

We all of us waited for him to die. The family sent him a check every month, and hoped he'd get on with it quietly, without too much vulgar fuss.

There's no such thing as failure - just waiting for success.

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.