Julian Barnes

Now, Stuart, as you will discover if you have not done so already, believes that the principal raison d'etre of food is to conceal from public view the hideous pattern on the plate beneath.

I read Hemingway's posthumous Paris memoirs, rumoured to have been written by his wife (`Out of the question,' Toni assured me, `they're so badly written they must be authentic').

This is I have to admit, one murky compartment of the female psyche which has yet to benefit from the oven-scourer of Reason.

History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.