The water rose further and dressed Simon's coarse hair with brightness. The line of his cheek silvered and the turn of his shoulder became sculptured marble.

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

You have the older generation like Iris Murdoch and Angus Wilson who are not as old as Graham Greene, but still are coming on. I dare say anyone who knew the scene better than I know it could fill it in with a very satisfactory supply of novels.

The greatest ideas are the simplest.

Worse than madness. Sanity.

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

How would I myself live in this proposed society? How long would it be before I went stark staring mad?