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And then some days you wake up and everything's perfect

David Nicholls

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David Nicholls
Age: 57
Born: 1966
Born: November 30
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Eastleigh Town
Days
Perfect
Everything
Wake

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Call me sentimental, but there's no-one in the world that I'd like to see get dysentery more than you
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And it was at moments like this that she had to remind herself that she was in love with him, or had once been in love with him, a long time ago.
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Welcome to the graveyard of ambition.
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She used to pride herself on her refusal to see two sides of an argument, but increasingly she accepts that issues are more ambiguous and complicated than she once thought.
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If you're my friend I should be able to talk to you but I can't, and if I can't talk to you, well, what is the point of you? Of us?
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From an evolutionary point of view, most emotions - fear, desire, anger - serve some practical purpose, but nostalgia is a useless, futile thing because it is a longing for something that is permanently lost . . . .
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To have had fame, even very minor fame, and to have lost it, got older and maybe put on a little weight is a kind of living death.
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David Holdaway was my stage name. I was an actor for about eight years in the '90s. I had to change my name because there was another David Nicholls, and I thought if I changed it to my mother's name, she'd be touched.
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Better by far to be good and courageous and bold and to make difference. Not change the world exactly, but the bit around you
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This is where it all begins. Everything starts here, today.
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...and once again Dexter is struck by how easy conversation can be when no-one is in their right mind
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As soon as she'd met him at the arrivals gate on his return from Thailand, lithe and brown and shaven-headed, she knew that there was no chance of a relationship between them. Too much had happened to him, too little had happened to her.
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Work hard at . . . something.
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As new dawns go, this one is depressingly like the old dawn.
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She realises that if she is to save the show she is going to have to improvise a rousing speech, one of the many Henry V moments that make up her working life.
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The true writer, the born writer, will scribble words on scraps of litter, the back of a bus tickets, on the wall of a cell.
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Cuddling was for great aunts and teddy bears. Cuddling gave him cramp.
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And of course there is always joy in witnessing the joy of others
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I had always been led to believe that ageing was a slow and gradual process, the creep of a glacier. Now I realise that it happens in a rush, like snow falling off a roof.
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