It's not that he lacked poetry. But his poetry was of the body, not the mind. He spoke it in the way he moved, the way he held a hammer, rowed a boat, built a fire. I, on the other hand, was like a brain in a box, a beating heart in a coal scuttle.

It's a strange sensation to live inside another person's life, to wonder all the time what he is doing, or thinking or feeling.

Ask any comedian, tennis player, chef. Timing is everything.

If there was ever a more perfect day in the history of time it isn't one I've heard about.

I'd like to think life has improved since 1850, despite the long hours we all seem to spend slaving over hot computers, but the psychological journeys remain the same - the search for love, identity, a meaningful place in the world.

She frowned at him. 'You are in love with solitude.' 'Is there a better cure for the world than solitude?

Perhaps the way to succeed is to think of life on Earth as a colossal joke, a creation of such immense stupidity that the only way to live is to laugh until you think your heart will break.