Not for the first time in my life, and certainly not for the last, a self-righteous gloom had edged out all semblance of logic.

All I know is that you can get very little from a book that is making you weep with the effort of reading it. You won’t remember it, and you’ll learn nothing from it, and you’ll be less likely to choose a book over Big Brother next time you have a choice.

Telling me I can do anything I want is like pulling the plug out of the bath and then telling the water it can go anywhere it wants. Try it, and see what happens.

We are never allowed to forget that some books are badly written; we should remember that sometimes they're badly read, too.

Anyway, who lives a rich and beautiful life that I know? It's no longer possible, surely, for anyone who works for a living, or lives in a city, or shops in a supermarket, or watches TV, or reads a newspaper, or drives a car, or eats frozen pizzas. A nice life, possibly, with a huge slice of luck and a little spare cash. And maybe even a good life if... Well, let's not go into all that. But rich and beautiful lives seem to be a discontinued line.

I miss him like one might miss a scar, or wooden leg, something disfiguring but characteristic.

Definitely avoid going out with ugly girls who say they want to be models. Not because they're ugly, but because they're mad".