He became absorbed beyond mere happiness as he felt himself exercising control over living things. He talked to them, urging them, ordering them. Driven back by the tide, his footprints became bays in which they were trapped and gave him the illusion of mastery.

They walked along, two continents of experience and feeling unable to communicate.

Towards midnight the rain ceased and the clouds drifted away, so that the sky was scattered once more with the incredible lamps of stars.

This is our island. It's a good island. Until the grownups come to fetch us we'll have fun.

I'm not a critic so much of my own writing. People must make up their own minds over that.

I also know Patrick White in Australia, both personally and as a writer, and Salman Rushdie in India.

For a small island, the place is remarkably diverse. Writers tend to see things from their own points of view, looking in one direction very much.