No Mention Of God. They Keep Him

Our Father The Novelist; My Husband The Poet. He Belongs To The Ages - Just Don't Catch Him At Breakfast. Artists, Celebrated For Their Humanity, They Turn Out To Be Scarcely Human At All.

At The Drabber Moments Of My Life (swilling Some Excrement From The Steps, For Instance, Or Rooting With A Bent Coat-hanger Down A Blocked Sink) Thoughts Occur Like 'i Bet Tom Stoppard Doesn't Have To Do This' Or There Is No Doubt David Hare Would Have Deputed This To An Underling.'

Mark My Words, When A Society Has To Resort To The Lavatory For Its Humour, The Writing Is On The Wall.

At Eighty Things Do Not Occur; They Recur.

Definition Of A Classic: A Book Everyone Is Assumed To Have Read And Often Thinks They Have.