I Think Of My Pile Of Old

I Took One Glance At Her In That Hospital Bed Under The Dull Light And Recognised The Look On Her Face, Which I'd Seen On Donors Often Enough Before. It Was Like She Was Willing Her Eyes To See Right Inside Herself, So She Could Patrol And Marshal All The Better The Separate Areas Of Pain In Her Body.

People Were Incredibly Kind To Our Family And Went Out Of Their Way To Help.

What Is The Point Of Worrying Oneself Too Much About What One Could Or Could Not Have Done To Control The Course One's Life Took? Surely It Is Enough That The Likes Of You And I At Least Try To Make Our Small Contribution Count For Something True And Worthy. And If Some Of Us Are Prepared To Sacrifice Much In Life In Order To Pursue Such Aspirations, Surely That In Itself, Whatever The Outcome, Cause For Pride And Contentment.

I Don't Really Like To Work With Literary Allusions Very Much. I Never Want To Be In A Position Where I'm Saying, "you've Got To Read A Lot Of Other Stuff" Or "you've Got To Have Had A Good Education In Literature To Fully Appreciate What I'm Doing."

I'm Interested In Memory Because It's A Filter Through Which We See Our Lives, And Because It's Foggy And Obscure, The Opportunities For Self-deception Are There. In The End, As A Writer, I'm More Interested In What People Tell Themselves Happened Rather Than What Actually Happened.