It is perhaps sad books that best console us when we are sad, and to lonely service stations that we should drive when there is no one for us to hold or love.

I am conscious of trying to stretch the boundaries of non-fiction writing. It's always surprised me how little attention many non-fiction writers pay to the formal aspects of their work.

When work is not going well, it's useful to remember that our identities stretch beyond what is on the business card, that we were people long before we became workers - and will continue to be human once we have put our tools down forever.

For paranoia about 'what other people think' : remember that only some hate, a very few love - and almost all just don't care.

So many complaints boil down to the belly ache of the fragile, mortal, ignored ego in a vast and indifferent universe.

At the heart of every frustration lies a basic structure: the collision of a wish with an unyielding reality.

Anxiety is the handmaiden of contemporary ambition.