“… You’re half-expecting someone to point out that back in the day he used to write books that sold for a tenner, and now they’ve gone up to seventeen quid.
What he’s doing, of course, is the only thing a writer can do: he’s writing the books that he wants, in the way he wants to. He wants to write about different things, and to add something to the natural talent that produced those early books… So where does this leave us to?”
“… Thosee of you who like to imagine that the literary world is a vast conspiracy run by a tiny yet elite cabal will not be surprised to learn that I read R.R.’s book because S. recommended it, and she happened to have an advance copy because R. is a friend of hers. So, to recap: a friend of mine who’s just written a book which I read and loved and have written about gives me a book by a friend of hers which she loved, so I read it and then write about it. See how it works? Oh, you’ve got no chance if you have no connection with One of Us…. You’re doomed to poverty and obscurity, all of you.”
The Complete Polysyllabic Spree