A Visit To Père Lachaise In Paris

Writing A Novel Is One Of Those Modern Rites Of Passage, I Think, That Lead Us From An Innocent World Of Contentment, Drunkenness, And Good Humor, To A State Of Chronic Edginess And The Perpetual Scanning Of Bank Statements.

Au Revoir, Jewelled Alligators And White Hotels, Hallucinatory Forests, Farewell.

I Work For Three Or Four Hours A Day, In The Late Morning And Early Afternoon. Then I Go Out For A Walk And Come Back In Time For A Large Gin And Tonic.

If You're Against Globalisation, It Doesn't Achieve Much By Sort Of Bombing The Head Offices Of Shell Or Nestle. You Unsettle People Much More By Blowing Up An Oxfam Shop Because People Can't Understand The Motive.

I Define Inner Space As An Imaginary Realm In Which On The One Hand The Outer World Of Reality, And On The Other The Inner World Of The Mind Meet And Merge. Now, In The Landscapes Of The Surrealist Painters, For Example, One Sees The Regions Of Inner Space; And Increasingly I Believe That We Will Encounter In Film And Literature Scenes Which Are Neither Solely Realistic Nor Fantastic. In A Sense, It Will Be A Movement In The Interzone Between Both Spheres.