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I’m sorry, literature, you who also have something of a guileless and pitying prostitute about you, I’ve abandoned you too in this reverie of self-absorption, reminiscing behind your back. I’m losing you, too, but it had to be done. I hope you understand: I’m trying to put my own jigsaw together, c…

And might this not be the real reason for what happened with G? If my heart belonged to someone else … Even now, there are nights when I return to that part of the city, and I feel, of course I do (fool that I am, unable to connect to my feelings unless I sit down and write like a man possessed), I…

Before that, I moved through the city like a sleepwalker; although my eyes were open, I saw no more than the bare minimum I needed in order to get where I had to go. But then, in the time opened up by the green-eyed gaze, the city filled all three, or four, of its dimensions; I lived in it, breathe…

Well, I may have had my body, but I saw it as worthless. For a start, I thought I was short, despite my five feet nine and three quarter inches; it’s amazing what an inferiority complex can do. From my height I looked down at a fairly respectable portion of the population, and yet I felt everyone w…

‘That’s OK,’ the reader tells me. ‘I understand. But what I don’t understand is why the hell you’re dumping all this rubbish in your novel rather than talking it through with your therapist. Stop messing me around,’ the reader adds, ‘and write something that’s actually entertaining: images, not sob…