Most Murders Are Committed By Someone Who

Jane Austen Writes About These Humdrum Lives With Such Empathy That They Seem Endlessly Fascinating

But I Don't Feel Sad About It. Because Mother Is Dead. And Because Mr. Shears Isn't Around Anymore. So I Would Be Feeling Sad About Something That Isn't Real And Doesn't Exist. And That Would Be Stupid.

There's Something Rather Wonderful About The Fact That Oxford Is A Very Small City That Contains Most Of The Cultural And Metropolitan Facilities You Could Want, In Terms Of Bookshops, Theatre, Cinema, Conversation. But It's Near Enough To London To Get Here In An Hour, And It's Near Enough To Huge Open Spaces Without Which I Would Go Insane.

I Like Having My Back Pressed Against A Wall And Being Made To Work Harder So I Don't Embarrass Myself.

I Went To Boarding School And Then I Went To Oxford, And I Know How Easy It Is For Certain Groups Of People To Become Wholly Insulated From Ordinary Life.