A Twenty-one-year-old Writer Is Likely To Be

No One Knew About The Squirrel’s Skull Beneath Briony Bed, But No One Wanted To Know.

No One Knows Anything, Really. It's All Rented, Or Borrowed.

None Of Us Really Either Know The Circumstances Of Our Death Or Are Likely To Exert As Much Control Over It As We Would Like To, But We Can Certainly Have A Little More Say In It If We Are Terminally Ill Than We Have At The Moment. That's The Element Of Dignity, But Sure, Life Is Very Hard To Organise Even When You Are Fit And Healthy.

Not Being Boring Is Quite A Challenge.

London In The '70s Was A Pretty Catastrophic Dump, I Can Tell You. We Had Every Kind Of Industrial Trouble; We Had Severe Energy Problems; We Were Under Constant Terrorist Attack From Irish Terrorist Groups Who Had Started A Bombing Campaign In English Cities; Politics Were Fantastically Polarized Between Left And Right.