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

His ceilings were 1.65 metres high, which suited him perfectly. Every guest he ever received had to crouch.

What happens when a Soviet prison doctor has to diagnose the man who invented Russian absurdism?

He sailed to Tahiti, India, and Japan in 1920 and never left his cabin — so what exactly was he doing in there?

For decades scholars thought a Swiss novelist's tiny notebooks were a secret code written from inside an asylum.

A terrified little man taught crafts to bored teenagers in Drohobycz and wrote two of the strangest books of the twentieth century, until the SS officer next door decided he wanted a Jew of his own.

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.