If The Seventies Were Bulbous, And The

Some People Have Human Muses - Mine Is A City. I Feel A Startling Ambivalence Towards London, But For Better Or Worse My Work Has Come Utterly To Depend Upon It.

There Can Be No More Thrilling Idea Of Intimacy That Connecting With Someone Through The Agency Of The Written Word. Here We Meet, On The Page, Naked And Unadorned: Shorn Of Class, Race, Gender, Sexual Identity, Age And Nationality. The Reader I Seek Is A Tautology, For He/she Is Simply Exactly The Person Who Wants To Read What I Have Written...

The Novelist, Quite Rightly, Fears The Psychoanalyst As Both An Enemy And A Usurper.

Lives Don't Divide Up Into Chapters. People Don't Just Talk, While Nothing's Going On In Their Head, And Then Respond. You Know, None Of These Things Actually Happen.

In My View The Plangent Artificiality Of A Lot Of Creative Work Results From The Fact That The People Who Write Novels, Direct Films And Put On Plays Tend To Read Too Many Novels, Watch Too Many Films And Go To Too Many Plays.