"The [London] Times" has published no rumours; it's only reported facts, namely that other, less responsible papers are publishing certain rumours.

If enough things that are untrue are said about you, no one will know what really is true.

In January 1962, when I was the author of one and a half unperformed plays, I attended a student production of 'The Birthday Party' at the Victoria Rooms in Bristol. Just before it began, I realised that Harold Pinter was sitting in front of me.

The days of the digitals are numbered. The metaphor is built into them like a self-destruct mechanism.

All your life you live so close to truth, it becomes a permanent blur in the corner of your eye, and when something nudges it into outline it is like being ambushed by a grotesque.

If rationality were the criterion for things being allowed to exist, the world would be one gigantic field of soya beans!

Maturity is a high price to pay for growing up.