My yesterdays walk with me. They keep step, they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder.

Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill! You knew, didn’t you? I’m part of you? Close, close, close! I’m the reason why it’s no go? Why things are what they are?

Sleep is when all the unsorted stuff comes flying out as from a dustbin upset in a high wind.

The trouble was, if you were a chief you had to think, you had to be wise.

What a man does defiles him, not what is done by others.

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 writer probably knows what he meant when he wrote a book, but he should immediately forget what he meant when he's written it.