The Fictional Work Is A Kind Of

Well, I Wanted To Be A Philosopher, Which Is The Idlest Occupation In The World. I Wanted To Be Involved In Abstract Thought, But Because Of Various Problems With The Authorities I Wasn't Able To Pull That One Off. A Lifetime Of Idleness In Academia Would Have Really Suited Me. So I Was Thrown Out, As It Were. Other Than That, There Seemed No Possible Idle Occupations, So Writing . . . Although Writing Isn't Exactly Idleness. There's An Enormous Tension Between Indolence And Languor.

As Far As I Can See, The History Of Experimental Art In The Twentieth Century Is Intimately Bound Up With The Experience Of Intoxification.

I Prefer To Write First Drafts As Soon As Possible After Waking, So That The Oneiric Inscape Is Still Present To Me.

The Only Proper Suit-and-tie Job I've Had In My Life Was The Two Years In The Late 1980s When I Ran A Small Corporate Publishing Company. I Even Had A Ford Sierra!

Ideologists Of All Kinds Find A Strange Sort Of Comfort In The Madness Of The Crowd; It Confirms Them In Their Suspicion That History, Far From Being Made By The Great Mass Of Individuals - As Marx Averred - Is Rather Unmade By A Single Massive Individual, A Collective Other, Who Stands In Stark Contrast To You And He.