I've Come Across A Novel Called The

The Water Rose Further And Dressed Simon's Coarse Hair With Brightness. The Line Of His Cheek Silvered And The Turn Of His Shoulder Became Sculptured Marble.

We Did Everything Adults Would Do. What Went Wrong?

Couldn't A Fire Outrun A Galloping Horse?

I Really Feel The Novel Has Certain Conveniences About It And Has Something So Fundamental About It You Could Almost Say That As Long As There Is Paper, There Is Going To Be The Novel.

Malcolm Bradbury Made The Point, And I Don't Know Whether It's A Valid One Or Not, That The Real English At The Moment Is Not The English Spoken In England Or In America Or Even In Canada Or Australia Or New Zealand. The Real English Is The English Which Is A Second Language, So That It's Rather Like Latin In The Days Of The Roman Empire When People Had Their Own Languages, But Had Latin In Order To Communicate.