I Think In Retrospect That All Those

Some People Have Human Muses - Mine Is A City. I Feel A Startling Ambivalence Towards London, But For Better Or Worse My Work Has Come Utterly To Depend Upon It.

Death, The Real Simile For Disease - For When We Are Ill, Do We Not Always Feel Like We Are Dying, Even If It's Only A Little? - Remains, Despite Our Secularism, The Most Metaphoricised Phenomenon Of All.

Certainly, For Time Out Of Mind, An Obsessive Dwelling On Happier Former Days Has Been Synonymous With Getting Older, While It Was The Juvenescent Who Rushed With Open Arms To Embrace The Future.

From Time To Time, As If Heaven-sent To Annoy, Someone Will Ask Me If I'm Self-disciplined When It Comes To My Work. I Usually Look Witheringly At Them And Snarl, 'what Do You Think?' I Mean, How Do You Imagine Anyone Writes A Quarter Of A Million Words A Year For Publication?

People Tend To Think Of Their Lives As Having A Dramatic Arc, Because They Read Too Much Fiction.