Writers, readers, and the ones who hid masterpieces behind the furniture.

She rode on crusade, got hauled out of Antioch in the dead of night, was caught fleeing in men's clothes at fifty, ran England at sixty-seven — and then she designed her own tomb.

What happens when a man who sleeps on a sofa because his bedroom is full of manuscripts finally has to move houses?

What kind of person files pear blossoms under "most vulgar thing in the world" and then puts functional tweezers on the same list as the impossibility of lasting love?