You look out on the driving range and it looks like snow, but it isn't, it's covered in golf balls.

These days - with the decline of the traditional churches - I'm concerned about where we obtain some form of moral direction.

I don't see myself as experimenting in any conscious way, it's perhaps that certain books require different densities of language.

I have a backlog of novels which I would love to be working on and would be working on if I were not obliged to hold down a full time job.

It seems we are capable of immense love and loyalty, and as capable of deceit and atrocity. It's probably this shocking ambivalence that makes us unique.

My work is known by too few people for me to be remembered as a writer - that is, beyond those dedicated souls (bless them) who have followed the oeuvre through its various stages. To be realistic, when they and the last of my friends have died, I doubt I shall be remembered at all.

The older I get, the more I seek to use a plain prose style, concentrating more on story.