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

“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.”

“Critics are to authors what dogs are to lamp-posts.”

“Jimmy: I hope you won't make the mistake of thinking for one moment that I am a gentleman.”