The Artist Secretes Nostalgia Around Life.

There Is No More Sombre Enemy Of Good Art Than The Pram In The Hall.

The Detective Story Itself Is In A Dilemma. It Is A Vein Which Is In Danger Of Being Worked Out, The Demand Is Constant, The Powers Of Supply Variable, And The Reader, With Each One He Absorbs, Grows A Little More Sophisticated And Harder To Please, While The Novelist, After Each One He Writes, Becomes A Little More Exhausted.

Slums May Well Be Breeding Grounds Of Crime, But Middle Class Suburbs Are Incubators Of Apathy And Delirium.

When I Write After Dark The Shades Of Evening Scatter Their Purple Through My Prose.

Beneath A Mask Of Selfish Tranquility Nothing Exists Except Bitterness And Boredom. I Am One Of Those Whom Suffering Has Made Empty And Frivolous: Each Night In My Dreams I Pull The Scab Off A Wound; Each Day, Vacuous And Habit-ridden, I Help It Re-form.