You Always Know When You're Going To

I Tried To Explain To Her The Significance Of The Great Poet, But Without Much Success, The Waste Land Not Figuring Very Largely In Mam's Scheme Of Things. "the Thing Is," I Said Finally, "he Won The Nobel Prize." "well," She Said, With That Unerring Grasp Of Inessentials Which Is The Prerogative Of Mothers, "i'm Not Surprised. It Was A Beautiful Overcoat."

Kafka Could Never Have Written As He Did Had He Lived In A House. His Writing Is That Of Someone Whose Whole Life Was Spent In Apartments, With Lifts, Stairwells, Muffled Voices Behind Closed Doors, And Sounds Through Walls. Put Him In A Nice Detached Villa And He'd Never Have Written A Word.

Had Your Forefathers, Wigglesworth, Been As Stupid As You Are, The Human Race Would Never Have Succeeded In Procreating Itself.

Books Are Not About Passing The Time. They're About Other Lives. Other Worlds.

At The Drabber Moments Of My Life (swilling Some Excrement From The Steps, For Instance, Or Rooting With A Bent Coat-hanger Down A Blocked Sink) Thoughts Occur Like 'i Bet Tom Stoppard Doesn't Have To Do This' Or There Is No Doubt David Hare Would Have Deputed This To An Underling.'