I don't write for any particular kind of person.

We all lie to each other, present some sort of front.

Twenty years ago, I was living in a lovely cottage on the edge of Dartmoor but I couldn't afford to run a car.

A lot of people stop short. They don't actually die but they say, 'Right I'm old, and I'm going to retire,' and then they dwindle into nothing. They go off to Florida and become jolly boring.

It seemed sensible to move to a market town where I could walk everywhere.

They may turn out to be a great disappointment, or perhaps they may be full of enchanting surprises.

I never really know the title of a book until it's finished.