I never imagined when I began writing in the early 1960s I'd become professional and my life would be transformed.

I am surrounded by counselors. My sister is a counselor. My daughter is training to be a counselor. A lot of my friends are counselors.

I've always loved books. I'm passionate about them. I think books are sexy. They are smooth and solid and contain delightful surprises. They smell good. They fit into a handbag and can be carried around and opened at will. They don't change. They are what they are and nothing else. One day I want to own a lot of books and have them nbear to me in my house, so that I can stroll to my bookshelves and choose what I fancy. I want a harem. I shall keep my favourites by my bed.

I don't know why women are so mad about flowers. Personally, they leave me cold. I prefer trees.

I'm spectacularly disorganised. I wrote my latest book in seven different notebooks scattered throughout my house.

Every time I start a new piece of work, I spend a long while under the duvet thinking I can't do it.

It's no surprise to me that intellectuals commit suicide, go mad or die from drink. We feel things more than other people. We know the world is rotten and that chins are ruined by spots.