I don't think the English like me. I sold a colossal best seller in America, and they never really forgave me.

A mixture, before the English, of irritation and bafflement, of having this same language, same past, so many same things, and yet not belonging to them any more. Being worse than rootless... speciesless.

In some mysterious way woods have never seemed to me to be static things. In physical terms, I move through them; yet in metaphysical ones, they seem to move through me.

I'd like to think the best of me was still hiding up in my sleeve.

The breakfast burritos are our best seller.

Americans like to think 'Python' is how English people really are. There is an element of truth to that.