Singing onstage—and everyone walking around me saying, “Look how happy she looks.”

Sufficiently well to see Johnson and Truss and then two or three days later, she’s dead. I thought, that’s fantastic. That’s something to celebrate. That’s a great death.

Quickly and by surprise. I don’t want the specter of death to linger.

My pain is under control and I'm terribly happy - it sounds weird to say, but I'm as happy as I've ever been in my life. I used to think I'd rather be hit by the proverbial bus, but having a couple of months knowing this is coming has really helped me both do the boring 'death-min', but also get my thoughts and prepare myself, and feel so accepting of what's to come. It's been such a great bonus, actually.

Reading quietly, in high grass, among loved ones (who are also quietly reading). Followed by a boozy lunch.

Narcissism, solipsism.

I feel almost certain I don't know them. It would be one of these types who dedicate their lives to the welfare of others, whereas the people I tend to know are people making stories out of the dramas of themselves.

Protect the time and space in which you write. Keep everybody away from it, even the people who are most important to you.

Don’t romanticise your “vocation”. You can either write good sentences or you can’t. There is no “writer’s lifestyle”. All that matters is what you leave on the page.

Violent death. Death generally.