The Only Truly Alien Planet Is Earth.

Given That External Reality Is A Fiction, The Writer's Role Is Almost Superfluous. He Does Not Need To Invent The Fiction Because It Is Already There.

If You're Against Globalisation, It Doesn't Achieve Much By Sort Of Bombing The Head Offices Of Shell Or Nestle. You Unsettle People Much More By Blowing Up An Oxfam Shop Because People Can't Understand The Motive.

I Suspect That Many Of The Great Cultural Shifts That Prepare The Way For Political Change Are Largely Aesthetic. A Buick Radiator Grille Is As Much A Political Statement As A Rolls Royce Radiator Grille, One Enshrining A Machine Aesthetic Driven By A Populist Optimism, The Other Enshrining A Hierarchical And Exclusive Social Order.

Trying To Exhaust Himself, Vaughan Devised An Endless Almanac Of Terrifying Wounds And Insane Collisions: The Lungs Of Elderly Men Punctured By Door-handles; The Chests Of Young Women Impaled On Steering-columns; The Cheek Of Handsome Youths Torn On The Chromium Latches Of Quarter-lights. To Vaughan, These Wounds Formed The Key To A New Sexuality, Born From A Perverse Technology. The Images Of These Wounds Hung In The Gallery Of His Mind, Like Exhibits In The Museum Of A Slaughterhouse.

A General Rule: If Enough People Predict Something, It Won't Happen.