As Far As I Can See, The

Well, I Wanted To Be A Philosopher, Which Is The Idlest Occupation In The World. I Wanted To Be Involved In Abstract Thought, But Because Of Various Problems With The Authorities I Wasn't Able To Pull That One Off. A Lifetime Of Idleness In Academia Would Have Really Suited Me. So I Was Thrown Out, As It Were. Other Than That, There Seemed No Possible Idle Occupations, So Writing . . . Although Writing Isn't Exactly Idleness. There's An Enormous Tension Between Indolence And Languor.

You Know That Sickening Feeling Of Inadequacy And Over-exposure You Feel When You Look Upon Your Own Empurpled Prose? Relax Into The Awareness That This Ghastly Sensation Will Never, Ever Leave You, No Matter How Successful And Publicly Lauded You Become. It Is Intrinsic To The Real Business Of Writing And Should Be Cherished.

I Think The Fundamental Apprehension Is That The City's An Organism Of Some Form, Rather Than Being Governed From Above.

I Prefer To Write First Drafts As Soon As Possible After Waking, So That The Oneiric Inscape Is Still Present To Me.

The Seventies Were My Fattest Decade. Overall I Think The Seventies Were Distinctly Bulbous. People Looked Chunky, Typefaces Were Rounded, Writing Implements Penile.