I Ought Not To Speak About The

Clinton's Hands Remain Incredibly Clean, Don't They, And Tony Blair's Smile Remains As Wide As Ever. I View These Guises With Profound Contempt.

When The Storm Is Over And Night Falls And The Moon Is Out In All Its Glory And All You're Left With Is The Rhythm Of The Sea, Of The Waves, You Know What God Intended For The Human Race, You Know What Paradise Is.

Do The Structures Of Language And The Structures Of Reality (by Which I Mean What Actually Happens) Move Along Parallel Lines? Does Reality Essentially Remain Outside Language, Separate, Obdurate, Alien, Not Susceptible To Description? Is An Accurate And Vital Correspondence Between What Is And Our Perception Of It Impossible? Or Is It That We Are Obliged To Use Language Only In Order To Obscure And Distort Reality -- To Distort What Happens -- Because We Fear It?

I Don't Think There's Been Any Writer Like Samuel Beckett. He's Unique. He Was A Most Charming Man And I Used To Send Him My Plays.

There's A Tradition In British Intellectual Life Of Mocking Any Non-political Force That Gets Involved In Politics, Especially Within The Sphere Of The Arts And The Theatre.