Heaven Lies Around Us In Our Infancy.

The Novel Is Very Much Alive, Indeed. In Toronto At The Sixth Annual International Festival Of Authors (october 1985) I Listened To Novelists By The Dozen.

I Think There Might Even Come A Time When I Would Read Virgil Again. Ovid's Metamorphoses, Perhaps, Not Because The Music Goes Round And Round And Never Comes Out, But Because It's An Extraordinary Picture Of Ceaseless Change That Never Comes To An End.

I Suppose I'd Have To Say That My Favourite Author Is Homer. After Homer's Ilaid, I'd Name The Odyssey, And Then I'd Mention A Number Of Plays Of Euripides.

We're Not Savages. We're English.

Life Should Serve Up Its Feast Of Experience In A Series Of Courses.