As an Anglo-Indian kid in Bolton, I was basically in a minority of one. That was a source of misery, but at the same time, one of the effects of receiving the message that you don't belong to the club is that you watch the club with detachment. The fact that no one quite knew who I was was a major contributory factor in starting to write.

Life would be much easier if I just wrote the same book over and over again. But I'm not interested in doing that.

Cheney, Rumsfeld - they were Shakespearean in their attitude of impunity.

For the minimum-wager with Caligulan needs, the glory days are soon over.

I, made in England, felt excluded, miffed, resistant to the idea of even visiting India, a position of increasing absurdity as, one by one, backpacking friends returned from the place with the standard anecdotal combo of nirvanic epiphany and toilet horror.

The winter of 1991 found me stunned and shivering in the aftermath of an imploded love affair. Being 26, I flung myself actorishly on London and, without any intimations of my own ludicrousness, spent two years showing God what I thought of Him by letting myself go.

My family is Anglo-Indian, and of the four children, I'm the only one who wasn't born in India.

My position is that you've got to accommodate everything. I don't morally accommodate but imaginatively accommodate.

We're in the age of the series, trilogy, boxed sets.

While I was writing 'The Last Werewolf,' I didn't watch any horror movies.