I Never Went To University. I'm Self-educated.

Perhaps All Of Life Is No More Than A Long Preparation For The Leaving Of It.

Throughout The 1960s And 1970s Devoted Beckett Readers Greeted Each Successively Shorter Volume From The Master With A Mixture Of Awe And Apprehensiveness; It Was Like Watching A Great Mathematician Wielding An Infinitesimal Calculus, His Equations Approaching Nearer And Still Nearer To The Null Point.

Dostoevsky Is Such A Bad Writer It Is Hard To Take Him Seriously As A Novelist, Though He Is A Wonderful Philosopher.

Art Is Amoral, Whether We Accept This Or Not; It Does Not Take Sides. The Finest Fictions Are Cold At Heart.

I Have Never Really Got Used To Being On This Earth. Sometimes I Think Our Presence Here Is Due To A Cosmic Blunder, That We Were Meant For Another Planet Altogether, With Other Arrangements, And Other Laws, And Other, Grimmer Skies. I Try To Imagine It, Our True Place, Off On The Far Side Of The Galaxy, Whirling And Whirling. And The Ones Who Were Meant For Here, Are They Out There, Baffled And Homesick, Like Us? No, They Would Have Become Extinct Long Ago. How Could They Survive, These Gentle Earthlings, In A World That Was Made To Contain Us.