I Think That At The Bottom Of

When I Get Sent Manuscripts From Aspiring Poets, I Do One Of Two Things: If There Is No Stamped Self-addressed Envelope, I Throw It Into The Bin.-if There Is, I Write And Tell Them To F**k Off.

Death: The Anaesthetic From Which None Come Round.

The Difficult Part Of Love Is Being Selfish Enough.

I Like Spaghetti Because You Don't Have To Take Your Eyes Off The Book To Pick About Among It, It's All The Same.

I Am Always Trying To 'preserve' Things By Getting Other People To Read What I Have Written, And Feel What I Felt.