...and I Went Into The Garden And

If One Book's Done This Well, You Want To Write Another One That Does Just As Well. There's That Horror Of The Second Novel That Doesn't Match Up.

At Twenty Life Was Like Wrestling An Octopus. Every Moment Mattered. At Thirty It Was A Walk In The Country. Most Of The Time Your Mind Was Somewhere Else. By The Time You Got To Seventy, It Was Probably Like Watching Snooker On The Telly.

I Think I've Learnt That There Is No Character So Strange That You Haven't Shared Their Experience In Some Small Way.

At Teenage Parties He Was Always Wandering Into The Garden, Sitting On A Bench In The Dark . . . Staring Up At The Constellations And Pondering All Those Big Questions About The Existence Of God And The Nature Of Evil And The Mystery Of Death, Questions Which Seemed More Important Than Anything Else In The Would Until A Few Years Passed And Some Real Questions Had Been Dumped Into Your Lap, Like How To Earn A Living, And Why People Fell In And Out Of Love, And How Long You Could Carry On Smoking And Then Give Up Without Getting Lung Cancer.

And Because There Is Something They Can’t See People Think It Has To Be Special, Because People Always Think There Is Something Special About What They Can’t See, Like The Dark Side Of The Moon, Or The Other Side Of A Black Hole, Or In The Dark When They Wake Up At Night And They’re Scared.