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.

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.

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.

We've invested millions of dollars in tourism. Now they're trying to industrialize and pollute the ocean. It doesn't make any sense to me at all.

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

The true experimenters are there but no-one hears about them - the critical/review system tends to concentrate on the handful of 'major' writers and their promising successors; bookshops tend not to sell them; publishers don't promote them. It's the same fate as has befallen poetry.

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