But I suspect that all writers come up with premises of some kind, fragments of narrative or scenarios, in the course of a working week.

Where would David Copperfield be if Dickens had gone to writing classes? Probably about seventy minor characters short, is where. (Did you know that Dickens is estimated to have invented thirteen thousand characters? Thirteen thousand! The population of a small town!)

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

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.

You just have to smile and take it, otherwise it would drive you mad.

I don't believe in Heaven or anything. But I want to be the kind of person that qualifies for entry anyway.

No time spent with a book is ever entirely wasted, even if the experience is not a happy one: there’s always something to be learned. It’s just that, every now and again, you can hit a patch of reading that makes you feel as if you’re pootling about. [...] But what can you do about it? We don’t choose to waste our reading time; it just happens. The books let us down.