“My friend is composing an epic in Byronic stanzas entitled "True History of Autua, Last Moriori" & interrupts my journal writing to ask what rhymes with what: - "Streams of blood"? "Themes of mud"? "Robin Hood"?”

“Like Robin Hood....Not real, but true.”

“Who... who are you?' I asked at last. It was true. I had left a body in the park, but seriously, what was I supposed to do? Drag him back to my hotel and tell my bellhop my friend had had too much to drink?”

“All human history attestsThat happiness for man, - the hungry sinner! -Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.~Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIII, stanza 99”

“Every one of my novels could be entitled The Unbearable Lightness of Being or The Joke or Laughable Loves; the titles are interchangeable, they reflect the small number of themes that obsess me, define me, and unfortunately, restrict me. Beyond these themes, I have nothing else to say or write.”

“Captain Blood, Robin Hood, Don Juan -Flynn had played them all. Sometimes if the mood struck him, he'd even played them well.”