I absolutely don't dislike children - I would choose their company over adult company any time.

The writing you allude to is a form of dissent, but it's also expressive of the need to evolve beyond what is turgid and stale in contemporary fiction.

The anorexic body is held in the grip of will alone; its meaning is far from stable. What it says - 'Notice me, feed me, mother me' - is not what it means, for such attentions constitute an agonising test of that will, and also threaten to return the body to the dreaded 'normality' it has been such ecstasy to escape.

A feminist man is a bit like a vegetarian: it's the humanitarian principle he's defending, I suppose.

My children are living, thinking human beings. It isn't in my power to regret them, for they belong to themselves.

I think a lot of artists no longer want to participate in or be associated with narrative because of its corruptedness in contemporary culture.

Honest criticism, I suppose, has its place. But honest writing is infinitely more valuable.