It isn't that there's no right and wrong here. There's no right.

It was a good place for getting lost in, a city no one ever knew, a city explored from the neutral heart outward, until after many years, it defined itself into a jumble of clearings separated by stretches of the unknown, through which the narrowest of paths had been cut.

Whenever I have had to write fiction, I've always had to invent a character who roughly has my background.

The past has to be seen to be dead; or the past will kill.

Home is, I suppose just a child's idea. A house at night, and a lamp in the house. A place to feel safe.

What matters in the end in literature, what is always there, is the truly good. And- though played out forms can throw up miraculous sports like The Importance of Being Earnest or Decline and Fall- what is good is always what is new, in both form and content. What is good forgets whatever models it might have had, and is unexpected; we have to catch it on the wing.

But everything of value about me is in my books.