Every Novel Generates Its Own Climate, When

I'm Writing Another Novel And I Know What I'm Going To Do After, Which May Be Something More Like This Again, Maybe Some Strange Mixture Of Fiction And Non-fiction.

The Present Hardly Exists, After All-it Becomes The Past Even As It Happens. A Tricky Medium, Time - And Central To The Concerns Of Fiction.

In Old Age, You Realise That While You're Divided From Your Youth By Decades, You Can Close Your Eyes And Summon It At Will. As A Writer It Puts One At A Distinct Advantage.

It Seems To Me That Anyone Whose Library Consists Of A Kindle Lying On A Table Is Some Sort Of Bloodless Nerd.

I Believe That The Experience Of Childhood Is Irretrievable. All That Remains, For Any Of Us, Is A Headful Of Brilliant Frozen Moments, Already Dangerously Distorted By The Wisdoms Of Maturity.