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I love that sound,' he mumbled into her hair. 'Blackbirds at dawn.' 'I hate it. Makes me think I've done something I'll regret.
David Nicholls
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David Nicholls
Age: 58
Born: 1966
Born: November 30
Novelist
Screenwriter
Writer
Eastleigh Town
Hate
Makes
Done
Mumbled
Something
Blackbirds
Love
Dawn
Think
Regret
Thinking
Hair
Sound
More quotes by David Nicholls
Cherish your friends, stay true to your principles, live passionately and fully and well. Experience new things. Love and be loved, if you ever get the chance
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I am not up to this. I am not capable. I thought I would be, but I'm not. Some part of me is missing, and I cannot do this.
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If there's anything I'm keen to get better at in my writing, then it's the writing of prose as opposed to the writing of dialogue.
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Being a decent human being will require effort and energy.
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If she does have a failing, and it's obviously only a tiny one, it's that she doesn't seem particularly curious about other people, or me, anyway.
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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.
David Nicholls
He wanted to live life in such a way that if a photograph were taken at random, it would be a cool photograph.
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Well, I don't think Hollywood's a dirty word at all, I love a lot of Hollywood films.
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I'm just not prepared to be treated like this anymore.' 'Treated like what?' She sighed, and it was a moment before she spoke. 'Like you always want to be somewhere else, with someone else.
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Everything was fine, and she had the rare, new sensation of being exactly where she wanted to be.
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A joke was not a single-use item but something you brought out again and again until it fell apart in your hand like a cheap umbrella.
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She made a firm resolution, one of the resolutions she was making almost daily these days. No more sleepovers, no more writing poetry, no more wasting time. Time to tidy up your life. Time to start again.
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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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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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She drinks pints of coffee and writes little observations and ideas for stories with her best fountain pen on the linen-white pages of expensive notebooks. Sometimes, when it's going badly, she wonders if what she believes to be a love of the written word is really just a fetish for stationery.
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No, friends were like clothes: fine while they lasted but eventually they wore thin or you grew out of them.
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[He] didn’t like to think of himself as vain, but there were definitely times when he wished there was someone on hand to take his photograph.
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I still find it absurdly difficult to concentrate on a novel if there's a phone or computer to hand I have taken to locking them outside the room like noisy pets.
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I would never complain about One Day taking off but it made me painfully self-conscious for a long time.
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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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