My father, raised in the London suburbs on postwar rationing and imperial decline, filled my childhood with gloomy British aphorisms. Youth is wasted on the young. Many are called, few are chosen. I'm glad I can't remember most of them, because they're showing a disturbing tendency to prove true.

He did give me one piece of practical advice. If you must write, he told me, with a sorrowful shake of his head, go off and do something else first. Otherwise you'll have nothing to write about except writing.