And If These Incidents Now Seem Full

I Think It's Quite Difficult To Understand What Kind Of Life A Writer Leads. They Might Be Millionaires, Or They Might Be Starving People.

Memory, I Realize, Can Be An Unreliable Thing; Often It Is Heavily Coloured By The Circumstances In Which One Remembers.

The Booker Triumph Of Graham Swift's Moving, Effortlessly Profound Last Orders Is A Vindication Of The Quiet, Much-misunderstood Path This Fine Writer Chose To Take After The Brilliance Of Waterland More Than Ten Years Ago.

The Fantasy Never Got Beyond That—i Didn’t Let It—and Though The Tears Rolled Down My Face, I Wasn’t Sobbing Or Out Of Control. I Just Waited A Bit, Then Turned Back To The Car, To Drive Off To Wherever It Was I Was Supposed To Be.

We Took Away Your Art Because We Thought It Would Reveal Your Souls. Or To Put It More Finely, We Did It To Prove You Had Souls At All.