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Dexter, I love you so much. So, so much, and I probably always will. I just don't like you anymore. I'm sorry.

David Nicholls

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David Nicholls
Age: 58
Born: 1966
Born: November 30
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Eastleigh Town
Love
Like
Dexter
Anymore
Sorry
Probably
Much
Always

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He put one hand lightly on the back of her neck and simultaneously she placed one hand lightly on his hip, and they kissed in the street as all around them people hurried home in the summer light, and it was the sweetest kiss that either of them would ever know. This is where it all begins. Everything starts here, today. And then it was over.
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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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Read a book at the right age and it will stay with you for life.
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Letters, like compilation tapes, were really vehicles for unexpressed emotions and she was clearly putting far too much time and energy into them.
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Failure and unhappiness is easier because you can make a joke out of it.
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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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He has found himself more and more reliant on her at exactly the point that she has become less available to him.
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I think you actually get a kick out of being disappointed and under-achieving, because it's easier, isn't it? Failure and unhappiness is easier because you can make a joke out of it.
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These days grief seems like walking on a frozen river most of the time he feels safe enough, but there is always that danger that he will plunge through.
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Who do you think you are, Jane Eyre? Grow up. Be sensible. Don't get carried away.
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…surprised all over again at how very comforting very bad food can be.
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These days grief seems like walking on a frozen river most of the time he feels safe enough, but there is always that danger that he will plunge through. Now he hears the ice creak beneath him, and so intense and panicking is the sensation that he has to stand for a moment, press his hands to his face and catch his breath.
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The fact was I loved my wife to a degree that I found impossible to express, and so rarely did.
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And of course there is always joy in witnessing the joy of others
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I had made this mistake once before, on a school trip to the Victoria and Albert Museum, when I followed a sign marked WOMEN, thinking it was an exhibition on the changing roles of women in society, and actually ended up standing in the ladies' toilets.
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So - whatever happened to you?' 'Life. Life happened.
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Welcome to the graveyard of ambition.
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We're not ourselves, are we? I'm certainly not myself, not anymore. And you're not either. You don't seem yourself. Not as I remember you.
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She shouldn't speak her thoughts nothing good ever came of speaking your thoughts.
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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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