“I think perhaps the adults we become are formed in childhood and there's no way around it.”

“ I can't bear to be on a train without a book", she announced. " It's a form of self-defence in a way" .”

“I think i'm just breathing, that's all. And there's a difference between breathing and being alive.”

“You fought in the Great War?” a journalist from The Guardian asked me in a long interview to coincide with the presentation of the prize. “I didn’t think it was all that great.” I pointed out. “In fact, if memory serves, it was bloody awful.” “Yes, of course,” said the journalist, laughing uncomfortably. “Only you’ve never written about it, have you?” “Haven’t I?” “Not explicitly, at least.” He said, his face taking on an expression of panic, as if he had suddenly realized that he might have forgotten some major work along the way. “I suppose it depends on one’s definition of explicit,” I replied. ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve written about it any number of times. On the surface, occasionally. A little buried, at other times. But it’s been there, hasn’t it? Wouldn’t you agree? Or do I delude myself?” “No, of course not. I only meant—“ “Unless I’ve failed utterly in my work, that is. Perhaps I haven’t made my intentions clear at all. Perhaps my entire writing career has been a busted flush.” “No, Mr. Sadler, of course not. I think you misunderstood me. It’s clear that the Great War plays a significant part in your—“ At eighty-one, one has to find one’s fun where one can.”

“There's things that happen in a person's life that are so scorched in the memory and burned into the heart that there's no forgetting them.”

“It's the countryside. Perhaps this is our holiday home.”

“Regrets and apologies are all very well, but there's things that happen in a person's life that are so scorched in the memory and burned into the heart that there's no forgetting them. They're like brands.”