Where are you happiest?

Reading to my son and naming the world for him; spying on my partner as he does the same.

What is your favourite word?

When editing Piano Lessons, I discovered I used the words ‘grim’ and ‘extravagant’ on almost every page.

Which human quality do you most admire?

Kindness.

What is your favourite book?

In Search of Lost Time.

And your favourite literary hero and heroine?

Marcel, and Anne Elliot.

What, if anything, impedes your writing?

A miserable addiction to email.

How old were you when your first book appeared?

Thirty-five.

Of which of your books are you fondest?

It is an only child.

In a phrase, how would you characterise your work?

Grim and extravagant.

Who is your favourite author?

Marcel Proust. Also Alice Munro and Philip Roth.

How do you regard publishers?

I revere my publisher, so they seem an exalted species.

What do you think of the state of criticism?

Patchy, but then I read something written with X-ray vision and it thrills me.

If you had your time over again, would you choose to be a writer?

Yes, but perhaps I wouldn’t try to be so many other things at the same time.

What do you think of writers festivals?

I grew up on the grassy slopes of Adelaide Writers’ Week, and always loved it: its picnic atmosphere, the easy democracy of ideas. My brother and I used to dare each other to ask random questions, but we were trumped one year by an elderly man who asked John Banville to explain his position on ambidextrousness, and whether it could be cultivated by the decanting of iced water into one’s left ear.

Do you feel artists are valued in our society?

After many years of obscurity as a pianist, and now a measure of attention after one book, I suspect that writers are valued more highly than classical musicians.

What are you working on now?

In theory, a couple of essays; in practice, the Trout quintet.