What Are We? Humans? Or Animals? Or

The Pile Of Guts Was A Black Blob Of Flies That Buzzed Like A Saw. After A While These Flies Found Simon. Gorged, They Alighted By His Runnels Of Sweat And Drank. They Tickled Under His Nostrils And Played Leapfrog On His Thighs. They Were Black And Iridescent Green And Without Number; And In Front Of Simon, The Lord Of The Flies Hung On His Stick And Grinned. At Last Simon Gave Up And Looked Back; Saw The White Teeth And Dim Eyes, The Blood—and His Gaze Was Held By That Ancient, Inescapable Recognition.

Malcolm Bradbury Made The Point, And I Don't Know Whether It's A Valid One Or Not, That The Real English At The Moment Is Not The English Spoken In England Or In America Or Even In Canada Or Australia Or New Zealand. The Real English Is The English Which Is A Second Language, So That It's Rather Like Latin In The Days Of The Roman Empire When People Had Their Own Languages, But Had Latin In Order To Communicate.

Towards Midnight The Rain Ceased And The Clouds Drifted Away, So That The Sky Was Scattered Once More With The Incredible Lamps Of Stars.

The Greatest Pleasure Is Not - Say - Sex Or Geometry. It Is Just Understanding. And If You Can Get People To Understand Their Own Humanity - Well, That's The Job Of The Writer.

Graham Greene At 82 Years Old Was Still Writing, And I Don't Think Anyone Can Deny The Force, The Expertise, And The Unique Quality Of His Writing, If You Take His Complete Oeuvre.