Cynicism Is Our Shared Common Language, The

I Have Always Been Accused Of Taking The Things I Love – Football, Of Course, But Also Books And Records – Much Too Seriously, And I Do Feel A Kind Of Anger When I Hear A Bad Record, Or When Someone Is Lukewarm About A Book That Means A Lot To Me. Perhaps It Was These Desperate, Bitter Men In The West Stand At Arsenal Who Taught Me How To Get Angry In This Way; And Perhaps It Is Why I Earn Some Of My Living As A Critic – Maybe It’s Those Voices I Can Hear When I Write. ‘you’re A Wanker, X.’ ‘the Booker Prize? The Booker Prize? They Should Give That To Me For Having To Read You.

Everyone Disliked Their Partners At Some Time Or Another, She Knew That. But She’d Spent Her Hours In The Dark Wondering Whether She’d Ever Liked Him. Would It Really Have Been So Much Worse To Spend Those Years Alone? Why Did There Have To Be Someone Else In The Room While She Was Eating, Watching Tv, Sleeping?

Contemporary Poetry Is A Kind Of Reykjavik, A Place Where Accessibility And Intelligence Have Been Fighting A Cold War By Proxy For The Last Half-century.

Life Isn't, And Has Never Been, A 2-0 Home Victory After A Fish And Chip Lunch.

The Truth About Life Was That Nothing Ever Ended Until You Died, And Even Then You Just Left A Whole Bunch Of Unresolved Narratives Behind You.