I Grew Up In Rhodesia On My

At The Age Of 12 I Won The School Prize For Best English Essay. The Prize Was A Copy Of Somerset Maugham's 'introduction To Modern English And American Literature.' To This Day I Keep It On The Shelf Between My Collection Of Forester's Works And The Little Urn That Contains My Mother's Ashes.

You Know That Feeling When You Finish A Final Exam And You Think, 'i Never Want To Do That Again'? Well I Have The Same Feeling When I Finish A Novel. Each Time I Say, 'i Think I May Retire Now' And Then After Six Months The Ideas Start To Churn Again. I Could Never Stop.

A Cynic Had Defined Aid As Simply The System By Which Poor White People In Rich Countries Gave Money To Rich Black People In Poor Countries To Put Into Swiss Bank Accounts.

It's A Strange Paradox That A Man Gifted With Too Many Talents Can Fritter Them All Away Without Developing A Single One To Its Full.

My Family Wasn't Terribly Affluent And Looked Upon Money Very Carefully As Something That Had To Be Saved, Not Spent. My Father Built The Ducting That Took Air Into The Copper Mines And Made About 6 D A Yard In The Thirties, Which Was Good Money Back Then.