Autobiography - Morrissey Humans are colourful creatures, even if most of them appear one-dimensionally black or white on the outside. Or two-dimensionally grey.

I love this man. He is smart, and weird, and sensual. He is controversial and arrogant too. He is a bountiful mixture of good and bad, of relatable and unattainable. And this is why I thought his own account of his fascinating life was going to leave me anything but unimpressed.

Morrissey's autobiography was written by the wronged hero: What was the reason for this attack on me, so aggressively fueled and so overdone that it appears to want to bring a life to an end?, who arose like a Phoenix from the ashes after the whole world conspired against him: Yes, time can heal. But it can also disfigure. And surviving the Smiths is not something that should be attempted twice. If the Smiths split was designed to kill me off, then it failed. If the Smiths court case was a second attempt to kill me off, it too must fail..
It was written by the namedropper superstar who knows all other superstars: 'Nancy Sinatra coils in a recliner at her Beverly Hills home. We have become good friends.'; 'Robbie Williams sticks two notes into my front door.'; 'Wherever I go I seem to see the Duchess of Nothing, Sarah Ferguson.' - all on the same page.
It was actually written by God himself: Arms and arms and chests and hands of Morrissey messages inked in for life - tattooed across nakedness, each one an essay, and it's all I can do to take deep breaths. A tattoo means I am always there - even when people shower, my words or pasty face will gaze up from soaped bodies..

I love poetry. This is part of the reason I love Morrissey - he is a poet. There were a lot of beautiful moments in this book: 'In one photograph (because this is what people become)'; ' His parents have urged him to never - under any circumstances - be himself' and there was poetry too but, I must confess, it was the part of the book where Morrissey dissected other people's poetry that I enjoyed the most. The rest, perhaps due to the lack of any paragraphs, felt like reading one of those big historical poems that I hated back in school (Maybe Mozza is the new Homer?).

Humans are multidimensional creatures, but only a few are colourful both on the inside and on the outside. Morrissey is one of them. His autobiography, however, is rather greyish.