We talked filth for a pleasant half hour.
To live as an artist requires hard work or some extraordinary good fortune to come your way.
I have this lock of hair that keeps falling across my forehead. It drives me mad.
I don't think they'll ever make a retro Bond.
I know many older writers who were very successful and whose books are now out of print, so you have to go to antiquarian booksellers to buy their fifth or eighth novel or whatever it is.
Do we change every time we have a new encounter? Are we endlessly mutable? I think these are fascinating questions: it's a rich vein to tap, and I don't think I have exhausted it fully yet.