A slightly more conscious awareness of writing as compensation may lend us energy to acknowledge our unrequited ache for more visceral forms of contact.

Friends afford us a change to express our deepest selves, and that the conversations we have with them are a privileged forum in which to say what we really think and, by extension and with no mystical allusion, be who we really are.

It is surprising to find that Proust held some extremely caustic views about friendship- in fact, to find that he had an unusually limited conception of the value of his, or indeed anyone's friendships.

Proust was not well place to enjoy honest friendships. For a start, he had far too many true but unkind thoughts about people.

Anyone who urgently needs us deserves, in the true book of love, to be our friend.

Our responses to the world are crucially moulded by the company we keep, for we temper our curiosity to fit in with the expectations of others.