Writers who put their names on things when most people wouldn't dare.

She was being read by twelve million people a day and answered every fan letter by hand. So she dynamited a boulder on a treeless rock and built somewhere to hide.

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?

If the world's greatest mystery writer vanished for eleven days and registered at a hotel under her husband's mistress's name, what exactly was she solving?

A man who had invented 2,472 people died asking one of them to save him.

A bishop sealed her inside a stone room, and she stayed for forty years — then T.S. Eliot quoted her during the Blitz.

He had a second, fancier iron hand built for Sundays.

He shipped coal to Newcastle during a miners' strike and sold every piece at a premium.

A paint-eating raven died, got stuffed, and ended up inspiring two of the most famous works in English literature — from two different writers.

She arrived at the Royal Society in 1666, critiqued their methods to their faces, and they used her visit as justification to ban every woman who came after her — for 278 years.