Most Writers Flinch At The Thought Of

Selfish Men Make The Best Lovers. They're Prepared To Invest In The Women's Pleasures So That They Can Collect An Even Bigger Dividend For Themselves.

The Endless Newsreel Clips Of Nuclear Explosions That We Saw On Tv In The 1960s (were) A Powerful Incitement To The Psychotic Imagination, Sanctioning *everything*.

Hell Is Out Of Fashion - Institutional Hells At Any Rate. The Populated Infernos Of The 20th Century Are More Private Affairs, The Gaps Between The Bars Are The Sutures Of One's Own Skull. A Valid Hell Is One From Which There Is A Possibility Of Redemption, Even If This Is Never Achieved, The Dungeons Of An Architecture Of Grace Whose Spires Point To Some Kind Of Heaven. The Institutional Hells Of The Present Century Are Reached With One-way Tickets, Marked Nagasaki And Buchenwald, Worlds Of Terminal Horror Even More Final Than The Grave.

When The Modern Movement Began, Starting Perhaps With The Paintings Of Manet And The Poetry Of Baudelaire And Rimbaud, What Distinguished The Modern Movement Was The Enormous Honesty That Writers, Painters And Playwrights Displayed About Themselves. The Bourgeois Novel Flinches From Such Notions.

If You're Against Globalisation, It Doesn't Achieve Much By Sort Of Bombing The Head Offices Of Shell Or Nestle. You Unsettle People Much More By Blowing Up An Oxfam Shop Because People Can't Understand The Motive.