I vividly remember being 14. That was the age when I started to get happy: I started being a writer and stopped being a loser.

I hear it still. As I lay down my pen and take to my bed, I am aware of the bow being drawn across the bridge and the music rises into the night sky. It is far away and barely audible - but there it is! A pizzicato. Then a tremelo. The style is unmistakable. It is Sherlock Holmes who is playing. It must be. I hope with all my heart that he is playing for me . . .

I don't know what I'd do without you. There's no one else to look after me. And it's not just that. I sometimes think you're the only person who really knows me. I only feel normal when I'm with you.

Show Holmes a drop of water and he would deduce the existence of the Atlantic. Show it to me and I would look for a tap. That was the difference between us.

Your name?"The movements of the man's mouth didn't quite match what he was saying, so seeing him speak was a bit like watching a badly dubbed film. "Alex Gardiner," Alex said. "Your real name?" "I just told you." "You lied. Your real name is Alex Rider." "Why ask if you think you know?

We live in an age when there is no room for the impossible.

All that sadness. All that anger. It is the smoke that gets into your eyes. If you do not blow it away, how can you hope to see?