You Have To Work At Relationships. You

Love, It Turns Out, Is As Undemocratic As Money, So It Accumulates Around People Who Have Plenty Of It Already: The Sane, The Healthy, The Lovable.

Loving People, And Allowing Yourself To Be Loved, Was Only Worth The Risk If The Odds Were In Your Favor, But They Quite Clearly Weren't. There Were About Seventy-nine Squillion People In The World, And If You Were Very Lucky, You Would End Up Being Loved By Fifteen Or Twenty Of Them. So How Smart Did You Have To Be To Work Out That It Just Wasn't Worth The Risk?

But I Suspect That All Writers Come Up With Premises Of Some Kind, Fragments Of Narrative Or Scenarios, In The Course Of A Working Week.

We Are Never Allowed To Forget That Some Books Are Badly Written; We Should Remember That Sometimes They're Badly Read, Too.

It Struck Him That How You Spent Christmas Was A Message To The World About Where You Were In Life, Some Indication Of How Deep A Hole You Had Managed To Burrow For Yourself