Sarte Was Right, Hell Is Other People

I Thought I Could Never Write A Proper Book; I'd Never Done It Before. But I Thought I Could Write A Sequence. Then I Had A Chapter. The Next Thing I Knew I Was Turning Acting Down.

I Had Been Right: Freedom Smelled Like Ozone And Thunderstorms And Gunpowder All At Once, Like Snow And Bonfires And Cut Grass, It Tasted Like Seawater And Oranges.

People You Knew When You Were Teenagers, The Ones Who Saw Your Stupidest Haircut And The Most Embarrassing Things You've Done In Your Life, And They Still Cared About You After All That: They're Not Replaceable, You Know?

With Acting, You Have To Depend On Somebody Else To Decide If You Are Allowed To Work. You Can Spend Weeks And Months When You Are Not Acting At All.

It Took My Breath Away, That Evening. If You've Ever Dreamed That You Walked Into Your Best-loved Book Or Film Or Tv Program, Then Maybe You've Got Some Idea How It Felt: Things Coming Alive Around You, Strange And New And Utterly Familiar At The Same Time; The Catch In Your Heartbeat As You Move Through The Rooms That Had Such A Vivid Untouchable Life In Your Mind, As Your Feet Actually Touch The Carpet, As You Breathe The Air; The Odd, Secret Glow Of Warmth As These People You've Been Watching For So Long, From So Far Away, Open Their Circle And Sweep You Into It.