My very wise and politically savvy 17-year-old daughter says I get too emotional about political issues. I think she’s right. She knows that if she sees me race across a room, I have just read something about Trump. Turning ideas into feelings is the thing an essayist is supposed to do, but political punditry should probably be more detached.

I introspect a lot and keep asking myself questions on what is right and wrong.

I’ve a deplorable tendency to become entrenched in my own prejudices: If I dislike an artist, an art form, or an idea (jazz, ballet, certain kinds of fiction) it is extremely difficult to get me to change my mind, and all evidence presented to the contrary will be discarded and very likely mocked. Of course, nobody suffers but me.

Reading too many books at the same time.

Monday to Friday, very, very industriously from ten in the morning ’til about six in the evening, I just sat and wrote, and revised and revised, and wrote.

He’s been a total delight. So I now have a son of 41, a son of 40 and one of four.

I want to give little Oliver as much daddy as I can while I’ve got strength. I want to make a movie. I’ve got a very strong movie in my head.

Love, in so many different manifestations... normally a calm feeling, an intense and rich feeling that is based on a very beautiful emotion of connection with people, and space on earth, and in the world. Love, and respect, and admiration, and appreciation, these things flow easily into eachother.

And when I spoke once, very recently, about African artists, you were resistant to that idea of African art. The Africans who are artists, but they're artists, they were artists.

It’s art that influenced me while I was in exile – Dumile Feni’s work.