I'm Really A Library Man, Or Second-hand

I Grew Up In A Completely Bookless Household. It Was My Father's Boast That He Had Never Read A Book From End To End. I Don't Remember Any Of His Ladies Being Bookish. So I Was Entirely Dependent On My Schoolteachers For My Early Reading With The Exception Of The Wind In The Willows, Which A Stepmother Read To Me When I Was In Hospital.

The Cat Sat On The Mat Is Not A Story. The Cat Sat On The Other Cat’s Mat Is A Story.

If There Is One Eternal Truth Of Politics, It Is That There Are Always A Dozen Good Reasons For Doing Nothing.

The Spy Who Came In From The Cold Was The Work Of A Wayward Imagination Brought To The End Of Its Tether By Political Disgust And Personal Confusion. Fifty Years On, I Don't Associate The Book With Anything That Ever Happened To Me, Save For One Wordless Encounter At London Airport When A Worn-out, Middle-aged Military Kind Of Man In A Stained Raincoat Slammed A Handful Of Mixed Foreign Change On To The Bar And In Gritty Irish Accents Ordered Himself As Much Scotch As It Would Buy. In That Moment, Alec Leamas Was Born. Or So My Memory, Not Always A Reliable Informant, Tells Me.

But I Think The Real Tension Lies In The Relationship Between What You Might Call The Pursuer And His Quarry, Whether It's The Writer Or The Spy.