The British And American Literary Worlds Operate

From Time To Time, As If Heaven-sent To Annoy, Someone Will Ask Me If I'm Self-disciplined When It Comes To My Work. I Usually Look Witheringly At Them And Snarl, 'what Do You Think?' I Mean, How Do You Imagine Anyone Writes A Quarter Of A Million Words A Year For Publication?

We've Clearly Entered A Period In Which The Analog Of Text Is No Longer Important Or Relevant. All Text Will Be Electronic. I Accept That Fact. My House Has Thousands Of Books In It, And I've Started To Look At Them Completely Differently. They Now Seem To Me To Be Like Antiquarian Objects. Their Use Value Has Become Negligible To Me Because I'm Perfectly Happy To Read On An E-reader.

Mother Sighed With Exasperation. "look, There Aren't Any "people In Charge Of Death". When You Die You Move To Another Part Of London, That's All There Is To It. Period.

I'd Rather Fiddle With My Phone For Precious Seconds Than Neglect An Apostrophe; I'd Rather Insert A Word Laboriously Keyed Out Than Resort To Predictive Texting For A - Acceptable To Some - Synonym.

Most Of Us Have Had That Experience - At Around Puberty - Of Realising That, Despite Whatever Efforts We Put Into Our Chosen Sports, We Will Become At Best Competent.