Surrounded by my great-great-grandchildren.

As far as I can tell, I’ll either succumb to some opportunistic infection, for which I’ve refused antibiotics in advance, or, having similarly declined forced feeding, I’ll starve to death. ... I don’t know how long it takes to die of starvation, or whether it hurts, but I dread it, just as I dread my sons watching me go like that. Because that is what they will remember, their mother reduced to a bag of bones.

In my sleep. And I don’t think about it. It’ll be what it’ll be.

When I am ready. When I have had enough. When I can no longer give anything. When I can no longer appreciate the small beauties. Without pain or remorse.

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

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.

Narcissism, solipsism.

Violent death. Death generally.