I let people off the hook too easily.

We all possess, like it or not, the people we know, and are possessed by them in turn.

There's a sense in all my novels that nothing is certain.

We never love anyone. Not really. We only love our idea of another person. It is some conception of our own that we love. We love ourselves, in fact.

We keep a journal to entrap that collection of selves that forms us, the individual human being.

Is that a good definition of marking the ageing watershed? That moment when you realize - quite rationally, quite unemotionally - that the world in the not-so-distant future will not contain you: that the trees you planted will continue growing but you will not be there to see them.

I tend to admire dead people more than the living. All too often, human reality diminishes the glowing reputation.