There Is A Terrible Alienation In The

I've Got More Than One String To My Bow, And I Thought I'd Give This One A Twang.

Never Trade A Secret, You'll Always Get The Short End Of The Bargain.

Without A Pen In My Hand I Can't Think.

The Spy Who Came In From The Cold Was The Work Of A Wayward Imagination Brought To The End Of Its Tether By Political Disgust And Personal Confusion. Fifty Years On, I Don't Associate The Book With Anything That Ever Happened To Me, Save For One Wordless Encounter At London Airport When A Worn-out, Middle-aged Military Kind Of Man In A Stained Raincoat Slammed A Handful Of Mixed Foreign Change On To The Bar And In Gritty Irish Accents Ordered Himself As Much Scotch As It Would Buy. In That Moment, Alec Leamas Was Born. Or So My Memory, Not Always A Reliable Informant, Tells Me.

In The Last 15 Or 20 Years, I've Watched The British Press Simply Go To Hell. There Seems To Be No Limit, No Depths To Which The Tabloids Won't Sink. I Don't Know Who These People Are But They're Little Pigs.