Each Man Kills The Thing He Loves.

There Was Me, That Is Alex, And My Three Droogs, That Is Pete, Georgie And Dim, Dim Being Really Dim, And We Sat In The Korova Milkbar Making Up Our Rassoodocks What To Do With The Evening.

I Chart A Little First-list Of Names, Rough Synopsis Of Chapters, And So On. But One Daren't Overplan; So Many Things Are Generated By The Sheer Act Of Writing.

The Unconscious Mind Has A Habit Of Asserting Itself In The Afternoon.

Blockbusting Fiction Is Bought As Furniture. Unread, It Maintains Its Value. Read, It Looks Like Money Wasted. Cunningly, Americans Know That Books Contain A Person, And They Want The Person, Not The Book.

Elgar Is Not Manic Enough To Be Russian, Not Witty Or Pointilliste Enough To Be French, Not Harmonically Simple Enough To Be Italian And Not Stodgy Enough To Be German. We Arrive At His Englishry By Pure Elimination.