Then you have people coming up like Malcolm Bradbury, a relatively young writer who deals with the academic scene and deals with it, I think, brilliantly.

The candle-buds opened their wide white flowers....Their scent spilled out into the air and took possession of the island.

Are we savages or what?

Philosophy and Religion-what are they when the wind blows and the water gets up in lumps?

I really feel the novel has certain conveniences about it and has something so fundamental about it you could almost say that as long as there is paper, there is going to be the novel.

There were no words, and no movements but the tearing of teeth and claws.

Simon became inarticulate in his effort to express mankind's essential illness.