A man hears what he wants to hear, and disregards the rest. I think that kind of thing is an abuse of history.

I do think that the legacy of the Norman conquest is still strong in Britain. Our hereditary monarchy, our established church, our ancient county structures, though hollowed out in many ways, are a direct result of what happened in 1066.

In most novels, the landscape, or the place, in which the story takes part is simply a backdrop to the human action.

It's always hard for an author to determine his own intentions, especially in retrospect.

We enjoy telling ourselves that we will soon be gods, masters of the planet, manipulating the genes of living creatures and rebuilding the world at a nano-level as we lie back in our hammocks, attended by our robot servants. I don't believe a word of it, and I'm not sure many of us do.

I’m increasingly attracted by the idea that there can be at least small pockets where life and character and beauty and meaning continue. If I could help protect one of those from destruction, maybe that would be enough. Maybe it would be more than most people do.

Hope, like despair, is something of a distraction: it gets in the way of a clear view of the horizon.