The Seventies Were My Fattest Decade. Overall

The Future Continues To Preoccupy Me As A Reliable Source Of Hopes, Fears And Anxieties, But Increasingly The Present Seems To Have No Outstanding Qualities Of Its Own, Being Merely A Way-station Through Which Events Travel To The Vast Shadow Lands Of The Past.

You May Have Gathered That I Am Not The Most Cheerful Of Revellers - Some Characterise Me As The Death And Soullessness Of Any Party But It Wasn't Always So, Believe Me.

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?

That Tertiary Education Is Under A Sustained Assault By A Political And - It Often Seems - Social Consensus That Equates All Education With Training For Increased Productivity, Only Makes Academe A Still More Promising Environment For A Contrarian.

I Think Of Writing As A Sculptural Medium. You Are Not Building Things. You Are Removing Things, Chipping Away At Language To Reveal A Living Form.