Ten years ago, a friend handed me a beaten-up book of poetry that was printed in 1919. He told me that I should read it, as some of my own work was quite similar in style. I put it on the shelf and forgot about it for six months. Then one day as I walked past the shelf, I put my hand out and picked the same book up without thinking, it feel open on a page with the poem "Doubts" staring up at me.

At the age of 28, Rupert Brooke died on a ship in Greek waters. He had only recently joined the military to aid the fight of the First World War. He left behind him a small but perfectly formed body of work.

I had the idea of filming people reading, before I knew what I wanted them to read. It became pretty obvious after a few days that I should not be so vain as to try to write something myself, but I should delve into the book that had stayed by my side, since the day I picked it up off that shelf. It should be the very poem that the book fell open on.

There will never be an end to this. I hope to take the same book with me wherever I happen to go. There will indeed be stages, but never completion.