A Ton Of Proust Isn’t Worth An

Art Is The Principal Way In Which The Human Mind Has Tried To Remake The World In A Way That Makes Sense. The Carefully Edited, Slow-motion, Action Replay Of A Rugby Tackle, A Car Crash Or A Sex Act Has More Significance Than The Original Event. Thanks To Virtual Reality, We Will Soon Be Moving Into A World Where A Heightened Super-reality Will Consist Entirely Of Action Replays, And Reality Will Therefore Be All The More Rich And Meaningful.

I Believe That If It Were Possible To Scrap The Whole Of Existing Literature, All Writers Would Find Themselves Inevitably Producing Something Very Close To Sf ... No Other Form Of Fiction Has The Vocabulary Of Ideas And Images To Deal With The Present, Let Alone The Future.

Writing A Novel Is One Of Those Modern Rites Of Passage, I Think, That Lead Us From An Innocent World Of Contentment, Drunkenness, And Good Humor, To A State Of Chronic Edginess And The Perpetual Scanning Of Bank Statements.

The Car As We Know It Is On The Way Out. To A Large Extent, I Deplore Its Passing, For As A Basically Old-fashioned Machine, It Enshrines A Basically Old-fashioned Idea: Freedom. In Terms Of Pollution, Noise And Human Life, The Price Of That Freedom May Be High, But Perhaps The Car, By The Very Muddle And Confusion It Causes, May Be Holding Back The Remorseless Spread Of The Regimented, Electronic Society.

In A Completely Sane World, Madness Is The Only Freedom.