I'm A Hopeless 19th-century Romantic.

Fictional Characters Are Made Of Words, Not Flesh; They Do Not Have Free Will, They Do Not Exercise Volition. They Are Easily Born, And As Easily Killed Off.

I Would Be Far More Critical Than Any Reviewer Could Be Of My Own Work. So I Simply Don't Read Them.

The Telephone Ringing Gave Me A Dreadful Start. I Have Never Got Used To This Machine, The Way It Crouches So Malevolently, Ready To Start Clamouring For Attention When You Least Expect It, Like A Mad Baby.

We Carry The Dead With Us Only Until We Die Too, And Then It Is We Who Are Borne Along For A Little While, And Then Our Bearers In Their Turn Drop, And So On Into The Unimaginable Generations.

With The Crime Novels, Its Delightful To Have Protagonists I Can Revisit In Book After Book. Its Like Having A Fictitious Family.