Some of the greatest works out there are made even more extraordinary by the stories that surround them. I'm always drawn to stories with a story. Not the cliches though. Only the ones that touch my heart.

Sylvia Plath's semi-autobiographical novel The Bell Jar, for instance. A greater sense of pathos shrouds the book than if it had simply been a memoir. With the latter, you somehow expect the tragedy and that anticipation will desensitise to a certain extent. But The Bell Jar was written under a pseudonym. When you imagine all the agony spilled and yet still very much bottled up, you can't help but be sympathetic. Especially given how she stuck her head in the oven after sealing the doors with wet towels so her children won't be affected by the gas. There's something very sad about a mother who is obviously still very aware of reality because the last thing she does is to take care of her kids, and yet, finds life so unbearable she has to end it.

Then there is Arcade Fire's Funeral album, named so for the many family members who passed away around the same time.

But the most moving of all has to be The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. A memoir by ex-French Elle edtitor-in-chief Jean-Dominique Bauby written in an extraordinary way. Struck by a sudden massive stroke, he became a living mind trapped inside an inert body, only able to blink one eye and turn his head. An assistant would flash the alphabet and he would blink at the right letter. In this painstaking manner, he wrote this book.

It's not just because of how the book was written. He was the editor-in-chief of French Elle. That's arguably the top fashion capital, a successful international title, and he was one of the top horses. Can you imagine how exciting his world must have been, and more importantly, being a writer and a creator, just how active his mind must have been? And yet to be stuck, locked up in one's own body with fully intact mental faculties. How utterly cruel is that fate?