Madly, Deeply. The Alan Rickman Diaries

The film is an advert for drugs. A brilliant on.

Sometimes you don't know the end of the sentence upon which you have just embarked. Scary.

London a fragile place to be.

As this birthday approaches there is strong, strong desire to control the past (photographs, old scripts, mementos) or sling it out. Very freeing. 

Look in the wardrobe - if there are clothes which slightly depress you to look at them - maybe out they could go.

Alcohol as ever the great loosener of tongues, truths & untruths. It can free and it can destroy.

Whatever law it is, or thinks it is, which says that families must gather together and get on on a particular day should be repealed or blown apart. This what the pits.

Re-reading some pages of this diary is like looking at a graph of an exhausted.

This kind of sickness robs you of thought - you are all sensation and none of it is pleasant, except a certain relief at being still and warm.

Charm. Humour. Perspective. Respect for other people. Awareness of foreign tongues, customs. All more or less absent from Herr Director's psyche.

God forbid Americans should feel they are somewhere ELSE.

I hate last nights, last shots, goodbyes. Casual as possible is all I can do - hard in the face of an outpouring of affection from the Russian crew.

Somewhere around 10.30 I feel a confrontation coming on, so I go to look for one. Success.

I, of course, respond to all this like a tank running through its gears.

Actors are great people, and special and funny & self-denigrating, so fuck you anyone who disagrees.

Will I now ever get used to not having caviar for breakfast?

So much attention to "the look". What about "the content"?

The walls we are surrounded by - the objects we fill the spaces with - the lives they all describe.

Sweeping up leaves is good therapy for almost everything.