The Novelist, Quite Rightly, Fears

Regard Yourself As A Small Corporation Of One. Take Yourself Off On Team-building Exercises (long Walks). Hold A Christmas Party Every Year At Which You Stand In The Corner Of Your Writing Room, Shouting Very Loudly To Yourself While Drinking A Bottle Of White Wine. Then Masturbate Under The Desk. The Following Day You Will Feel A Deep And Cohering Sense Of Embarrassment.

We've Clearly Entered A Period In Which The Analog Of Text Is No Longer Important Or Relevant. All Text Will Be Electronic. I Accept That Fact. My House Has Thousands Of Books In It, And I've Started To Look At Them Completely Differently. They Now Seem To Me To Be Like Antiquarian Objects. Their Use Value Has Become Negligible To Me Because I'm Perfectly Happy To Read On An E-reader.

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.

I Think The Fundamental Apprehension Is That The City's An Organism Of Some Form, Rather Than Being Governed From Above.

The Only Proper Suit-and-tie Job I've Had In My Life Was The Two Years In The Late 1980s When I Ran A Small Corporate Publishing Company. I Even Had A Ford Sierra!