He is, we glean, a solitary soul, beset on all sides by the mercenary madness and fool-suffering of the music business. His Irish blood thrums with a Joycean music, and his tale washes over the reader like a single, gale-like exhalation of every breath he ever held.ĭespite the millions he's made (and lost), the acclaim, the adulation, Morrissey rarely confesses to having any fun. Streets to define you and streets to confine you," is every bit the prose poet you'd expect. The misfit lad who rose, as he writes, from Manchester's "streets upon streets upon streets. He's the uncompromising artiste, strict vegetarian and animal protectionist who pronounced, via a Smiths album, that "Meat is Murder." And he lives his creed to the point of abruptly leaving the dinner table whenever someone orders steak or frogs legs in his presence.
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