It Was The Kind Of Library He

Our Father The Novelist; My Husband The Poet. He Belongs To The Ages - Just Don't Catch Him At Breakfast. Artists, Celebrated For Their Humanity, They Turn Out To Be Scarcely Human At All.

All The Effort Went Into Getting There And Then I Had Nothing Left. I Thought I'd Got Somewhere, Then I Found I Had To Go On.

But Then Books, As I'm Sure You Know, Seldom Prompt A Course Of Action. Books Generally Just Confirm You In What You Have, Perhaps Unwittingly, Decided To Do Already. You Go To A Book To Have Your Convictions Corroborated. A Book, As It Were, Closes The Book.

Kafka Could Never Have Written As He Did Had He Lived In A House. His Writing Is That Of Someone Whose Whole Life Was Spent In Apartments, With Lifts, Stairwells, Muffled Voices Behind Closed Doors, And Sounds Through Walls. Put Him In A Nice Detached Villa And He'd Never Have Written A Word.

I Turned Down A Knighthood. It Would Be Like Having To Wear A Suit Every Day Of Your Life.