I finally got around to finishing Keith Richard’s autobiography Life, whose title joins the likes of Bill Clinton’s “My Life” and Ricky Martin’s “Me” to be the most unimaginative and egotistical titles for an autobiography.
That said, I thoroughly enjoyed this book, at least the first half (the part that talked about Keith’s childhood, his love of music, and the obsessive pursuit of the creative process).
I usually read much heavier books, but given that I’ve just gone through a chain of books about war, it was time to read something less taxing on my ability to fall asleep.
Despite what you might imagine, this is not a book about a life of sex and drugs. It’s a book about a blues musician who loves, or rather is obsessed with, making music. In a way, it serves as an entertaining example of what it takes to be great at what you do and to be happy while doing it.