The future continues to preoccupy me as a reliable source of hopes, fears and anxieties, but increasingly the present seems to have no outstanding qualities of its own, being merely a way-station through which events travel to the vast shadow lands of the past.

The whole aesthetics of computers very much feeds into my OCD. They fill my head with obsessionalities and my actions become very repetitive. It seems quite inimical to the dreamy state out of which fiction comes which seems so much less causally repetitive than the way one works on computers.

It could be argued that every age gets the comfort savagery writer it deserves.

A creative life cannot be sustained by approval, any more than it can be destroyed by criticism.

Once the working classes were in chains, now they're in chain restaurants.

A short story is a shard, a sliver, a vignette. It's a biopsy on the human condition but it doesn't have this capacity to think autonomously for itself.

As the render is to the building, and the blueprint to the machine, so sport is to social existence.