I Think The Fundamental Apprehension Is That

Ideologists Of All Kinds Find A Strange Sort Of Comfort In The Madness Of The Crowd; It Confirms Them In Their Suspicion That History, Far From Being Made By The Great Mass Of Individuals - As Marx Averred - Is Rather Unmade By A Single Massive Individual, A Collective Other, Who Stands In Stark Contrast To You And He.

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

My Novels Tend To Come About From A Fusion Of Two Big Ideas, Creating A Critical Mass That Then Fissions, Throwing Off Hundreds Of Other Particles, Riffs, Tropes And Characters.

Drug Use And Procrastination Often Go Hand In Tourniquet.

The Novelist, Quite Rightly, Fears The Psychoanalyst As Both An Enemy And A Usurper.