There's No Tiling Moral About Beauty.

In A Certain Sense A Writer Is 'selected' By His Subject - His Subject Being The Consciousness Of His Own Era.

Any Writer Of Any Worth At All Hopes To Play Only A Pocket-torch Of Light - And Rarely, Through Genius, A Sudden Flambeau - Into The Bloody Yet Beautiful Labyrinth Of Human Experience, Of Being.

Exile As A Mode Of Genius No Longer Exists; In Place Of Joyce We Have The Fragments Of Work Appearing In Index On Censorship.

Responsibility Is What Awaits Outside The Eden Of Creativity.

When I Was A Child, We Seemed To Be Living In A World Remote From The Rest Of The World. But Television Has Made A Great Difference To All Of Us.