Hanif Kureishi’s Intimacy takes you inside a man’s head, a man who lives with a wife he despises. “Your arms are tongs,” his wife complains, Touch me with your hands.” But he cannot touch, he cannot love. He wants intimacy but he doesn’t have the ability to love. He’s a terrible father as well. He admits that he put brandy in his baby’s bottle. “I booted him hard up the nappy before he was even walking,” he says. He threw the baby into his bed backwards hitting the baby’s head. He isn’t much better to his mistress or his girlfriends. Love, as it happens in this story, can’t heap up and nest and flourish in a hollow man. It needs a moist home, and that moisture is the ability to love. If you cannot love, you wouldn’t feel love. “It is the saddest night, for I am leaving and not coming back.” That is the first line of our book on intimacy. Sadness is a closed fist, a closed heart.