I first read Arundhati Roy to impress a girl. Years later, Mother Mary Comes to Me helped me understand why her writing stayed with me long after that moment faded. This memoir feels like tracing a voice back to its source, and finding clarity in complexity rather than answers.
Chandler was my favourite because he felt exposed. Reading Matthew Perry’s memoir made me realise why the joke always came first.
Proof you don't need to know anything about Impressionism to enjoy a good biography. Sue Prideaux’s Wild Thing isn't really about painting, it's about a man who was permanently broke, unlucky in love, and constantly at war with his own decisions. Surprisingly readable and refreshingly human.
This was not a return to a symbol, but an encounter with a man, shaped by fractured beginnings, evolving faith, and an unflinching acceptance of what it means to speak without compromise.