Indeed — Why Should I Not Admit

And So We Stood Together Like That, At The Top Of That Field For What Seemed Like Ages, Not Saying Anything, Just Holding Each Other, While The Wind Kept Blowing And Blowing At Us, Tugging Our Clothes, And For A Moment, It Seemed Like We Were Holding Onto Each Other Because That Was The Only Way To Stop Us From Being Swept Away Into The Night.

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.

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.

There's A Practical Problem About Time And Energy, And A More Subtle Problem Of What It Does To A Writer's Head, To Continually Analyze Why They Write, Where It All Comes From, Where It's Going To.

I Felt Slightly Superior To Student Politics, For Instance. I Had No Reason To Think This, But I Thought Of Myself As Slightly More Seasoned. I Became Quite Cynical Talking To My Student Friends.