I'm in the back of a limousine with Charlie Chaplin and it’s 1928. Charlie is beautiful; his body language seems to skip, and reel and rhyme, heartbreaking and witty at the same time. It seems to promise a better world.

This is what books only aimed to do and never could. Give you the glint of someone else's sunrise, what living is really like, you get old and it hurts to bend your elbow; your friends start to die, you can’t get fresh fruit in the shops.

Everything, no matter how beautiful, is only with us for awhile.

You know, all the evil in the world, all the sadness comes from not having a good answer to that question: What do I do next? You just keep thinking of good things to do, lad. You'll be all right. We'll all be all right. I wanted you to know that.

In a sense who you are has always been a story that you told to yourself. Now your self is a story that you tell to others.

Everything goes, everything is lost, eventually. But if something is good, it doesn't matter what happens. The ending is still happy.

Sex complicates, but it is the power of love to simplify.