How Wicked, My Brothers, Innocent Milk Must

The Ideal Reader Of My Novels Is A Lapsed Catholic And Failed Musician, Short-sighted, Colour-blind, Auditorily Biased, Who Has Read The Books That I Have Read.

... A Clockwork Orange- And I Said: 'that's A Fair Gloopy Title. Who Ever Heard Of A Clockwork Orange?' Then I Read A Malenky Bit Out Loud In A Sort Of Very High Type Preaching Goloss: '- The Attempt To Impose Upon A Man, A Creature Of Growth And Capable Of Sweetness, To Ooze Juicily At The Last Round The Bearded Lips Of God, To Attempt To Impose, I Say, Laws And Conditions Appropriate To A Mechanical Creation, Against This I Raise My Swordpen-

Art Is Rare And Sacred And Hard Work, And There Ought To Be A Wall Of Fire Around It.

I Don't Write Out Of Fear. I Write Out Of A Strong Urge To Meet Death On Its Own Eternal Terms, Because The Fact Is That If You Write As Little As A Page Of Prose-even Bad Prose-that Is Eternal.

In Two Thousand Years All Our Generals And Politicians May Be Forgotten, But Einstein And Madame Curie And Bernard Shaw And Stravinsky Will Keep The Memory Of Our Age Alive.