'What's your favourite book?' is a regular question that bounces among friends, especially if your circle is a creative one. People usually respond with something like: 'Oh gosh, my favourite book! I couldn't possibly choose one!'. Then, after much coaxing and thinking, they come up with three, four, five titles. I've always wanted to be the person who can fire off an answer, and an exceedingly impressive one at that, without having to mull it over for one split second. I’ve always wished to raise above everyone else by zinging my interlocutor with a super-classic (say War and Peace), or with something that I couldn't put down (maybe Paradise Lost), or with one which has been read for centuries (The Bible), or with a far-fetched book that doesn't even exist, the one with the potential to make me sound either incredibly cultured or conceited depending on who was asking the question. Amidst all of this mental white noise though, I had discounted one type of book which does not belong to any given bookshop category and which is neither a classic nor enjoys worldwide acclaim. Yet, each one of us can immediately recognise it once we start reading: the book that was written for me. This is the book that, a few lines in, gives you reasons to pause as you double-check the cover. Maybe the author is your most intimate friend who is using an anagram nom de plume. When even the pic on the back cover elicits no... Read more →