We are nowhere. Or rather, we are somewhere beyond reach, floating above an ocean. The woman next to me has contorted herself on the seat and her feet are pushing into my thigh. We are flying backwards in time, and I know from the boarding pass that when we land, whenever that is, it will be again, 12.00 a.m.

Each mouthful was the same, another northern Italian dish informed by butter, challenging her imagined ideas of this country. She hadn’t felt anything in Milan yet that she hadn’t already felt at home. But when she got to the bottom of the plate, she had the thought that to be a tourist is to be a spectator, and that to be a spectator means making a wordless oath to passive observation. Which was a role that Helen had never respected in anyone she’d ever known.

Of all the door locks in the entire building, there is one he most looks forward to cleaning. The office is on the fortieth floor, and it has the most amazing lock of them all: actual wood.

Very few people are willing to say: I’m nobody, or what I am is not in any way fixed from moment to moment. It’s a very stressful idea.

That’s it. Enough! I will no longer say hello to the man from the piazza. From now on, I will turn my head, or pretend I haven’t heard him greet me, or I may even glance at him with a disgusted expression. That’s what he deserves. He thinks he can make a fool of me. I met him right there, in front of my building on the corner of a small piazza.

There is no dialogue in these scenes. Instead, the narrator probes them like a film camera might, a big roving eye. Each belongs to the same world. Is it our world? I go back and forth on this. It seems like ours to begin with. It has a harbour and ships and rivers and rain. But then the details take on a dreamlike, off-kilter quality.

The music-loving bohemian was tall, solidly built with dark hair, strong features and a thick moustache which nearly obscured a bemused half smile. He was an imposing figure, more like a confident big brother or an indulgent uncle than a stern father figure.

When I saw them last year I had the impression that they had been carefully lifted out of the political into the world of the musée imaginaire.

The winter evening settles down / like a failed soufflé / a television glow / announces more than we’ll ever know

‘I’m going to clone Rick,’ she once said to Megan. ‘Just give me a strand of his hair and I’ll make a duplicate.’ But that kind of talk made Megan nervous. Not that Jamie had any intention of cracking on to someone’s husband. But now, sitting on the edge of the bath, Jamie was careful to keep space between Rick and herself, to keep the conversation light.

A tough guy who harnessed little you to the belt attached to a long rope, as you learnt to swim in the deep water alone, while he, with zinc-creamed lips and tough-man face, walked along the curved platform way, way above, chatting to a mate and yelling down swimming instructions to you way, way below – kick yer legs/stretch yer arms. On smelly low-tide mornings you felt all alone in your speedo swimsuit.

She turned towards Didier but tried to avoid looking at him. He bent his hair into her face as he kissed her neck. Then he pulled off her jumper. Her arms collapsed though the sleeves. She had retreated to the furthermost point of her mind and it was from there that she heard him as he busied himself with her zipper: a vagueness, a proximity only. She felt the sly removal of her underwear with some surprise. But how the surprise? What was she thinking?

I was down in Hell discussing redemption. / All my dreams came true so fast. / Long primrose nights are coming back to haunt me, / nearly the only pleasure left.

If I have any advice to give to a beginner it is this: do not think too much. That makes for bad novels. By the same token, you must read, read extensively, read other authors, be curious about their work and respect it (behind the finest texts there is real suffering), the classics as much the moderns, from Marcus Aurelius to Michel Houellebecq, from Erasmus to Elfriede Jelinek, and write, write a great deal, scribble and scribble some more, and throw away much of it too, in order to give birth to the marvel of a hitherto unknown thought that surges out of its own self thanks to that unique act, for thought is neither external to nor anterior to the text, but consubstantial with the act of writing. Writers do not think, they allow themselves to be borne along.

The flat was dark and the light on the landing went off automatically after twenty seconds. At first, because of the darkness, I didn’t realise she was naked. You’re going to freeze, I said when the landing light came on again and showed her standing there, very straight, thinner than before. Her stomach and legs, which I had kissed so many times, looked terribly helpless, and instead of feeling drawn towards her, I was chilled by the sight of them, as if I were the one without clothes.

The envelope can make an upright, dignified entrance, and then lean against the inside wall like a dapper guest at a soiree.