My parents gave me the gift of irreligion, of growing up without bothering to ask people what gods they held dear, assuming that in fact, like my parents, they weren't interested in gods, and that this uninterest was 'normal.' You may argue that the gift was a poisoned chalice, but even if so, that's a cup from which I'd happily drink again.

It may be argued that the past is a country from which we have all emigrated, that its loss is part of our common humanity.

One minute you've got a lucky star watching over you and the next instant it's done a bunk.

Well, we're still in the middle of it. And it doesn't show any sign of going away. And these attacks that were - that seemed so odd at the time, with "Satanic Verses," because we didn't have any context for this. You know, where did that come from? It seemed to come out of nowhere.

Sometimes you find your voice by trying to write like people, and sometimes you find it by trying to write unlike people.

One of the problems with defending free speech is you often have to defend people that you find to be outrageous and unpleasant and disgusting.

I grew up in a family in which there was very little religion. My father wasn't religious at all. But he was really interested in the subject of, you know, the birth and growth of Islam. And he basically transmitted that interest to me.