Writing is above all a question of instinct.

Dinner at the Huntercombes' possessed only two dramatic features - the wine was a farce and the food a tragedy.

It is not what happens to people that is significant, but what they think happens to them.

Parents. . . are sometimes a bit of a disappointment to their children. They don't fulfil the promise of their early years.

Writing is a combination of intangible creative fantasy and appallingly hard work.

I get a warm feeling among my books.

On the stage . . . masks are assumed with some regard to procedure in everyday life, the participants act their parts without consideration either for suitability of scene or for the words spoken by the rest of the cast: the result is a general tendency for things to be brought to the level of farce even when the theme is serious enough.

You have to be a product of the product.

There is, after all, no pleasure like that given by a woman who really wants to see you.

I was impressed for the ten thousandth time by the fact that literature illuminates life only for those to whom books are a necessity. Books are unconvertible assets, to be passed on only to those who possess them already.

One of the worst things about life is not how nasty the nasty people are. You know that already. It is how nasty the nice people can be.

The whole idea of interviews is in itself absurd - one cannot answer deep questions about what one's life was like - one writes novels about it.

He fell in love with himself at first sight and it is a passion to which he has always remained faithful. Selflove seems so often unrequited.

A dance to the music of time.