Kill The Pig! Cut His Throat! Kill

I Began To Write When I Was Seven, And I Have Been Writing Off And On Ever Since. It Is Still Off And On. You Can Say That When I Am On, When I Know I Have A Book Which I Am Going To Write, Then I Write Two Thousand Words A Day. That's So Many Pages Longhand.

People Don't Help Much.

The Novel Is Very Much Alive, Indeed. In Toronto At The Sixth Annual International Festival Of Authors (october 1985) I Listened To Novelists By The Dozen.

You Have The Older Generation Like Iris Murdoch And Angus Wilson Who Are Not As Old As Graham Greene, But Still Are Coming On. I Dare Say Anyone Who Knew The Scene Better Than I Know It Could Fill It In With A Very Satisfactory Supply Of Novels.

The Pile Of Guts Was A Black Blob Of Flies That Buzzed Like A Saw. After A While These Flies Found Simon. Gorged, They Alighted By His Runnels Of Sweat And Drank. They Tickled Under His Nostrils And Played Leapfrog On His Thighs. They Were Black And Iridescent Green And Without Number; And In Front Of Simon, The Lord Of The Flies Hung On His Stick And Grinned. At Last Simon Gave Up And Looked Back; Saw The White Teeth And Dim Eyes, The Blood—and His Gaze Was Held By That Ancient, Inescapable Recognition.