I'm Simply Pointing Out That What Happens

But I Suspect That All Writers Come Up With Premises Of Some Kind, Fragments Of Narrative Or Scenarios, In The Course Of A Working Week.

The Plain State Of Being Human Is Dramatic Enough For Anyone; You Don't Need To Be A Heroin Addict Or A Performance Poet To Experience Extremity. You Just Have To Love Someone.

It's Just That Romance, With Its Dips And Turns And Glooms And Highs, Its Swoops And Swoons And Blues, Is A Natural Metaphor For Music Itself

[about Suicide] And Why Is It The Biggest Sin Of All? All Your Life You're Told That You'll Be Going To This Marvellous Place When You Pass On. And The One Thing You Can Do To Get You There A Bit Quicker Is Something That Stops You Getting There At All. Oh, I Can See That It's A Kind Of Queue­jumping. But If Someone Jumps The Queue At The Post Office, People Tut. Or Sometimes They Say, “excuse Me, I Was Here First.” They Don't Say, “you Will Be Consumed By Hellfire For All Eternity.” That Would Be A Bit Strong.

Reciprocation Was A Pretty Powerful Stimulant To The Imagination.