I’ve never really been into reading biographies. With the exception of pretty much anything about the life of Kierkegaard, I generally stay away from true stories and read either academic non-fiction, or novels.
But this year quite a lot of biographical accounts have ended up on my reading list, and several of them were amazing enough that I decided to do a whole new Reflections post for them.
I’m defining ‘biography’ quite loosely here, to mean anything where the author draws on personal experience (either their own or someone else’s) to discuss the central premise of the book.
I was sitting on the platform at Brighton station, waiting for a train. It had been a bit of a frustrating day: the trains had all not been running on time, and I’d only needed to go down there to pick up a single envelope. In total so far, the journey had taken me three hours for a five-minute conversation and envelope handover, and I still had the journey home on a stuffy train to look forward to. And the announcement boards weren’t working, and the train man had told me the train would “probably” be arriving soon, on platform five.
So there I was, sitting on a bench waiting for a train. I’m a patient person and had resigned myself to the idea of spending all day on public transport. I’d finished Augustine’s Confessions on the way down and was now in the first few pages of Jenny Lawson’s Furiously Happy.