I can't think of anything that excites a greater sense of childlike wonder than to be in a country where you are ignorant of almost everything.
Writers didn’t usually draw a crowd of paparazzi. As the service progressed, however, journalists began to enter the church. When it was over, they pushed their way toward him. Gillon, Marianne, and Martin tried to run interference. One persistent gray fellow (gray suit, gray hair, gray face, gray voice) got through the crowd, shoved a tape recorder toward him, and asked the obvious questions. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “I’m here for my friend’s memorial service. It’s not appropriate to do interviews.” “You don’t understand,” the gray fellow said, sounding puzzled. “I’m from the Daily Telegraph. They’ve sent me down specially.” “Gillon, I need your help,” he said. Gillon leaned down toward the reporter from his immense height and said, firmly, and in his grandest accent, “Fuck off.” “You can’t talk to me like that,” the man from the Telegraph said. “I’ve been to public school.