I Think I've Learnt That

At Teenage Parties He Was Always Wandering Into The Garden, Sitting On A Bench In The Dark . . . Staring Up At The Constellations And Pondering All Those Big Questions About The Existence Of God And The Nature Of Evil And The Mystery Of Death, Questions Which Seemed More Important Than Anything Else In The Would Until A Few Years Passed And Some Real Questions Had Been Dumped Into Your Lap, Like How To Earn A Living, And Why People Fell In And Out Of Love, And How Long You Could Carry On Smoking And Then Give Up Without Getting Lung Cancer.

There's Something Rather Wonderful About The Fact That Oxford Is A Very Small City That Contains Most Of The Cultural And Metropolitan Facilities You Could Want, In Terms Of Bookshops, Theatre, Cinema, Conversation. But It's Near Enough To London To Get Here In An Hour, And It's Near Enough To Huge Open Spaces Without Which I Would Go Insane.

I Could Invent Another World. I'm Not Terribly Keen On This One.

And I Know I Can Do This Because I Went To London On My Own, And Because I Solved The Mystery…and I Was Brave And I Wrote A Book And That Means I Can Do Anything.

He Really Did Not Care Whether He Survived Or Not, So Long As It Rendered Him Unconscious And Absolved Him Of Responsibility.