Picture this scene. A critic arrives at the gates of heaven. 'And what did you do?' asks Saint Peter. 'Well', says the dead soul. 'I criticised things'. 'I beg your pardon?' 'You know, other people wrote things, performed things, painted things and I said stuff like, "thin and unconvincing", "turgid and uninspired", "competent and serviceable,"...you know'.

It's extremely unlucky to be superstitious, for no other reason than it is always unlucky to be colossally stupid.

Well, isn't it splendid & rather toffee?

Nudity is a deep worry if you have a body like a bin bag full of yoghurt, which I have.

I suppose that there is no point wasting time being lazy, though of course indolence in a divine way, actually has its advantages.

To be human and to be adult means constantly to be in the grip of opposing emotions, to have daily to reconcile apparently conflicting tensions. I want this, but need that. I cherish this, but I adore its opposite too.

I have always been an impassioned advocate for the works of Shakespeare. I regard him as one of the most complete miracles of his or any other age.