“Asking a working writer what he feels about critics is like asking a lamppost what it feels about dogs.”

“Asking a working writer what he thinks about critics is like asking a lamp-post what it feels about dogs."[Time Magazine, October 31, 1977]”

“Asking a writer what he thinks about critics is like asking what a fire hydrant feels about dogs.”

“Jimmy: (in a low, resigned voice) They all want to scape from the pain of being alive. And, most of all, from love. (...) It's no good to fool yourself about love. You can't fall into it like a soft job, without dirtying up your hands.”

“Jimmy: One day, when I'm no longer spending my days running a sweet-stall, I may write a book about us all. It's all here. (slapping his forehead) Written in flames a mile high. And it won't be recollected in tranquillity either, picking daffodils with Auntie Wordsworth. It'll be recollected in fire, and blood. My blood.”

“I smiled. “Nick, this is my dead boyfriend, Robbie. If you can’t see him, at least you’ll be able to see the salt carton hanging in mid-air. My dog is a zombie, and I’ve got a friend that’s a witch.” “Oh,” he said in a very small voice. I nodded. “That’s pretty much what I asked you over to tell you. So, what’s new with you?”

“Jimmy: You'll end up like one of those chocolate merengues my wife is so fond of [Alison starts banging jars]...sweet and sticky on the outside, and sink your teeth in it [savouring every word]-inside, all white, messy and disgusting. [offering teapot sweetly to Helena] Milk?”