One Reads For Pleasure...it Is Not A

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'm Not Good At Precise, Coherent Argument. But Plays Are Suited To Incoherent Argument, Put Into The Mouths Of Fallible People.

The Longer I Practise Medicine, The More Convinced I Am There Are Only Two Types Of Cases: Those That Involve Taking The Trousers Off And Those That Don't.

We Were Put To Dickens As Children But It Never Quite Took. That Unremitting Humanity Soon Had Me Cheesed Off.

Reading Is Untidy, Discursive And Perpetually Inviting.