The crazy thing is that when we go to somebody's house, what's better than looking at their bookshelves? Nobody's ever going to say, "Can I see the index to your Kindle?" It's so depressing and so unsexy. Sure, it's there, but nobody is going to get excited by that.

As a writer, if you're prepared to work from your own wound, you're allowing people into the most vulnerable parts of yourself.

London is a small place, and it is very incestuous. People know where you live. Everybody is sort of on top of each other.

You don't get over it because 'it' is the person you loved.

There is no greater grief than to find no happiness, but happiness in what is past.

Perhaps all romance is like that; not a contract between equal parties but an explosion of dreams and desires that can find no outlet in everyday life. Only a drama will do and while the fireworks last the sky is a different colour.

What is more humiliating than finding the object of your love unworthy?