I deliberately decided to write a kind of guide to leather bars for straight people, for people not into leather, so that people could see what it was all about.

As humans we look at things and think about what we've looked at. We treasure it in a kind of private art gallery.

I don't think I could write a straight drama.

I had assumed that I would age with all my friends growing old around me, dying off very gradually one by one. And here was a plague that cut them off so early.

We learned in the university to consider Wordsworth and Keats as Romantics. They were only a generation apart, but Wordsworth didn't even read Keats's book when he gave him a copy.

I don't know how to sit outside myself and test against a hypothetical self who stayed home.