It might be said that a great unstated reason for travel is to find places that exemplify where one has been happiest. Looking for idealised versions of home-indeed, looking for the perfect memory.

Many aspects of the writing life have changed since I published my first book, in the 1960s. It is more corporate, more driven by profits and marketing, and generally less congenial - but my day is the same: get out of bed, procrastinate, sit down at my desk, try to write something.

Reading is also a journey. It's a process of discovery.

Loneliness in travel directs you and tells you about yourself. You don't become lonely unless you're alone.

One of the pleasures of reading is seeing this alteration on the pages, and the way, by reading it, you have made the book yours.

Someone who seems doddery is perhaps not doddery at all but only an older person absorbed in squinting concentration, as though on an ultimate trip, memorizing a scene, grateful for being alive to see it.

I'm constantly running across people who have never heard of books I think they should read.