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.

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.

Somewhere along the line I'd lost the will not to eat.

A piano might fall on your head, he said, but it also might not. And in the meantime you never know. Something nice might happen.

The things that break your heart when you think there`s nothing left to break

And after awhile of this my brain and my body and every single inch of me that was alive was flooded with the feeling that I was starving, starving for Edmond. And what a coincidence, that was the feeling I loved best in the world.

My daughter is a fantastic travelling companion - she's totally organised, whereas I'm hopeless.