Historical
![Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B0BPMVZ2S1.jpg)
Spare
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
It was one of the most searing images of the twentieth century: two young boys, two princes, walking behind their mother's coffin as the world watched in sorrow-and horror. As Princess Diana was laid to rest, billions wondered what Prince William and Prince Harry must be thinking and feeling-and how their lives would play out from that point on.
For Harry, this is that story at last.
Before losing his mother, twelve-year-old Prince Harry was known as the carefree one, the happy-go-lucky Spare to the more serious Heir. Grief changed everything. He struggled at school, struggled with anger, with loneliness-and, because he blamed the press for his mother's death, he struggled to accept life in the spotlight.
At twenty-one, he joined the British Army. The discipline gave him structure, and two combat tours made him a hero at home. But he soon felt more lost than ever, suffering from post-traumatic stress and prone to crippling panic attacks. Above all, he couldn't find true love.
Then he met Meghan. The world was swept away by the couple's cinematic romance and rejoiced in their fairy-tale wedding. But from the beginning, Harry and Meghan were preyed upon by the press, subjected to waves of abuse, racism, and lies. Watching his wife suffer, their safety and mental health at risk, Harry saw no other way to prevent the tragedy of history repeating itself but to flee his mother country. Over the centuries, leaving the Royal Family was an act few had dared. The last to try, in fact, had been his mother. . . .
For the first time, Prince Harry tells his own story, chronicling his journey with raw, unflinching honesty. A landmark publication, Spare is full of insight, revelation, self-examination, and hard-won wisdom about the eternal power of love over grief.
It was one of the most searing images of the twentieth century: two young boys, two princes, walking behind their mother's coffin as the world watched in sorrow-and horror. As Princess Diana was laid to rest, billions wondered what Prince William and Prince Harry must be thinking and feeling-and how their lives would play out from that point on.
For Harry, this is that story at last.
Before losing his mother, twelve-year-old Prince Harry was known as the carefree one, the happy-go-lucky Spare to the more serious Heir. Grief changed everything. He struggled at school, struggled with anger, with loneliness-and, because he blamed the press for his mother's death, he struggled to accept life in the spotlight.
At twenty-one, he joined the British Army. The discipline gave him structure, and two combat tours made him a hero at home. But he soon felt more lost than ever, suffering from post-traumatic stress and prone to crippling panic attacks. Above all, he couldn't find true love.
Then he met Meghan. The world was swept away by the couple's cinematic romance and rejoiced in their fairy-tale wedding. But from the beginning, Harry and Meghan were preyed upon by the press, subjected to waves of abuse, racism, and lies. Watching his wife suffer, their safety and mental health at risk, Harry saw no other way to prevent the tragedy of history repeating itself but to flee his mother country. Over the centuries, leaving the Royal Family was an act few had dared. The last to try, in fact, had been his mother. . . .
For the first time, Prince Harry tells his own story, chronicling his journey with raw, unflinching honesty. A landmark publication, Spare is full of insight, revelation, self-examination, and hard-won wisdom about the eternal power of love over grief.
Editorial Reviews
"Unflinching, introspective, and well-written."-Time
"Compellingly artful . . . [a] blockbuster memoir."-The New Yorker
"A scorching account of life in a golden cage."-The Atlantic
"Compellingly artful . . . [a] blockbuster memoir."-The New Yorker
"A scorching account of life in a golden cage."-The Atlantic
Readers Top Reviews
C L H Slapdasheff
Well….the hype was massive and this book was a massive let down. Prince Harry comes across as very jealous and bitter human being that still hasn’t dealt with the tragic death of his mother. Considering the ghostwriter is Pulitzer Prized it’s really badly written, flowery, almost childlike in some chapters. He says it’s “his truth” but is it “the truth”?
JC L H Slapdashef
Just finished reading this and oh my god! I bought this book purely out of curiosity. I’ve seen the media stories, the spin, and I’ve never really paid that much attention and taken anything I’ve ever read in the media with a pinch of salt. I’m not a raging flag waving royalist but neither am I a republican I sort of sit somewhere in the middle. I read the Andrew Morton Diana’s story book years ago so I knew that the royal family back then were brutal and she was undoubtedly treated diabolically by them but part of me, a naive part of me assumed lessons had been learnt from everything that surrounded Diana. As I was reading this it became clear very quickly that I was wrong and that they, had learnt nothing. I’ve never read anything so heart-breaking in my entire life. There have been constant rumblings in the media saying what is written is lies, however I will say that Harry comes across as very believable and while I keep a reasonable amount of scepticism and cynicism I also know between the stories in the tabloids and this book which one I think is the more genuine. What I got from it was a twelve-year-old boy who was left traumatised by the death of his mother and who didn’t get the love and support from his family he should have, because that family was too emotionally stunted and entirely dysfunctional and too preoccupied with appearances and public opinion. That left him completely lost for a number of years. So much so he didn’t believe and couldn’t accept the fact his mother had died and he whole heartedly believed she was in hiding for a number of years and would one day return. That isn’t delusional, that is being trapped in a perfectly natural stage of grief. In this case denial because nobody helped him overcome it. Indeed, from what he has written he was packed off back to boarding school shortly after the funeral and just left to get on with it – at this point let’s not forget it was not your standard run of the mill funeral. It was a funeral where he was expected to walk behind his mother’s coffin with his brother with the eyes of the world on him (and yes, I agree with what Harry says Charles Spencer said about that – it was barbaric). Harry talks at length and with obvious fondness about his time in Africa and the army. (The chapter about his time in the army does go on a bit though). He says he found himself when he went to Africa and I agree but I believe he found his real purpose when he joined the army. He admits he wasn’t a scholar and when he joined the army, he found something he was good at, excelled at - he found a purpose. Plus, there he was no longer the prince, he was just one of the lads, anonymous and free. But the spectre of the greedy monster that is the media took that away from him and returned him to the goldfish bowl to be hunted, dissected and bullied. That greedy monster also made him i...
Jo-Lee SmithThe D
This book has NOT been security checked for correct information , I feel Meghan and Harry are laughing at me for buying this book , And putting my money in there pockets. Harry can't come up with any dates, says he can't remember the dates of anything , Said he was At college on a Hot summers day when the phone call came about his Great Great Grandmother passing , He was not at school he was Skiing in Switzerland with his Brother ( I remember this) And the papers have come back with the proof. Harry says that his mother bought him an XBox for his 13th birthday in advance of her death that her sister brought to the school for him, again not true the XBox didn't come out till 4 years later . There is so many holes in the book . Every other page has something on it that didn't happen. He takes NO reasonability for ANYthing even when the evidence is staring him in his face. This book is a BIG con, don't waste your money.
JillJo-Lee SmithT
Potential spoiler alerts: This book was a fascinating glimpse into Harry’s mind. His young mother died. Not only did she die, as all mothers do, she was killed in a car accident, as happens to some mothers. Not only was she killed in a car accident, she was being chased by paparazzi, senselessly, which is unique. This was beyond young Harry’s comprehension. He was never ever able to process her death. Why, why, why? Her death plagued him, and her death still haunts him. His family was and still appears to be stoic. They aren’t a touchy feely bunch. They don’t talk about their emotions. It seems from the book they are too busy with their jobs to show their love of family through quality time. And what gifts and acts of services from family would have been meaningful to the young prince? So Harry floundered on his own without the support he needed and wanted at a critical time in his life. Had he been younger or older, perhaps he would have handled his mom’s death differently. Despite the Queen’s and his father’s reported reliance on her Christian faith, Harry said his religion was nature. This hasn’t worked out so well for Harry. Instead, he turned to alcohol and drugs. Hard to say if he has an addiction from the book. It was an eye opener to me how much alcohol and drugs he uses in his circle! (Is this what all the elite do? No wonder the world is messed up!) I guess it’s very affordable and available? He didn’t mention in the book what he does for fun. Parties seemed to be a prime hobby for him. The alcohol and drugs are of course mood altering he admits, but were they also contributing to his depression and agoraphobia? He raises lots of good questions. As far as the British paparazzi are concerned, as a not famous American, it’s hard for me to comprehend. The difference between being a famous actor and a famous prince is that an actor chose the career knowing what comes with it. Harry did not. I want to do a bit of research about British newspapers too. It’s not clear to me whether Harry was obsessed with American equivalents of the New York Times or the National Enquirer. Are all newspapers in Britain like the National Enquirer? And obsessed he was and is, based on his own words. I am on the internet a lot. I have to use a search engine to find articles about Harry. I am not bombarded with Harry articles. I go to the American grocery store. I see magazines. I also see (trash type) newspapers. I haven’t done research, I don’t have data, but don’t people by the trash type newspapers for fun? “Elvis Presley seen walking at Graceland on his birthday” Does anyone believe this stuff? So I’m trying to figure out what kind of newspapers these British papers are. Some kind of cross between a legitimate newspaper and a trash newspaper? Before reading this book, you may want to do some research first on newspapers in England....
Short Excerpt Teaser
We agreed to meet a few hours after the funeral. In the Frogmore gardens, by the old Gothic ruin. I got there first.
I looked around, saw no one.
I checked my phone. No texts, no voicemails.
They must be running late, I thought, leaning against the stone wall.
I put away my phone and told myself: Stay calm.
The weather was quintessentially April. Not quite winter, not yet spring. The trees were bare, but the air was soft. The sky was gray, but the tulips were popping. The light was pale, but the indigo lake, threading through the gardens, glowed.
How beautiful it all is, I thought. And also how sad.
Once upon a time, this was going to be my forever home. Instead it had proved to be just another brief stop.
When my wife and I fled this place, in fear for our sanity and physical safety, I wasn't sure when I'd ever come back. That was January 2020. Now, fifteen months later, here I was, days after waking to thirty-two missed calls and then one short, heart-racing talk with Granny: Harry . . . Grandpa's gone.
The wind picked up, turned colder. I hunched my shoulders, rubbed my arms, regretted the thinness of my white shirt. I wished I'd not changed out of my funeral suit. I wished I'd thought to bring a coat. I turned my back to the wind and saw, looming behind me, the Gothic ruin, which in reality was no more Gothic than the Millennium Wheel. Some clever architect, some bit of stagecraft. Like so much around here, I thought.
I moved from the stone wall to a small wooden bench. Sitting, I checked my phone again, peered up and down the garden path.
Where are they?
Another gust of wind. Funny, it reminded me of Grandpa. His wintry demeanor, maybe. Or his icy sense of humor. I recalled one particular shooting weekend years ago. A mate, just trying to make conversation, asked Grandpa what he thought of my new beard, which had been causing concern in the family and controversy in the press. Should the Queen Force Prince Harry to Shave? Grandpa looked at my mate, looked at my chin, broke into a devilish grin. THAT'S no beard!
Everyone laughed. To beard or not to beard, that was the question, but leave it to Grandpa to demand more beard. Let grow the luxurious bristles of a bloody Viking!
I thought of Grandpa's strong opinions, his many passions-carriage driving, barbecuing, shooting, food, beer. The way he embraced life. He had that in common with my mother. Maybe that was why he'd been such a fan. Long before she was Princess Diana, back when she was simply Diana Spencer, kindergarten teacher, secret girlfriend of Prince Charles, my grandfather was her loudest advocate. Some said he actually brokered my parents' marriage. If so, an argument could be made that Grandpa was the Prime Cause in my world. But for him, I wouldn't be here.
Neither would my older brother.
Then again, maybe our mother would be here. If she hadn't married Pa . . .
I recalled one recent chat, just me and Grandpa, not long after he'd turned ninety-seven. He was thinking about the end. He was no longer capable of pursuing his passions, he said. And yet the thing he missed most was work. Without work, he said, everything crumbles. He didn't seem sad, just ready. You have to know when it's time to go, Harry.
I glanced now into the distance, towards the mini skyline of crypts and monuments alongside Frogmore. The Royal Burial Ground. Final resting place for so many of us, including Queen Victoria. Also, the notorious Wallis Simpson. Also, her doubly notorious husband Edward, the former King and my great-great-uncle. After Edward gave up his throne for Wallis, after they fled Britain, both of them fretted about their ultimate return-both obsessed about being buried right here. The Queen, my grandmother, granted their plea. But she placed them at a distance from everyone else, beneath a stooped plane tree. One last finger wag, perhaps. One final exile, maybe. I wondered how Wallis and Edward felt now about all their fretting. Did any of it matter in the end? I wondered if they wondered at all. Were they floating in some airy realm, still mulling their choices, or were they Nowhere, thinking Nothing? Could there really be Nothing after this? Does consciousness, like time, have a stop? Or maybe, I thought, just maybe, they're here right now, next ...
I looked around, saw no one.
I checked my phone. No texts, no voicemails.
They must be running late, I thought, leaning against the stone wall.
I put away my phone and told myself: Stay calm.
The weather was quintessentially April. Not quite winter, not yet spring. The trees were bare, but the air was soft. The sky was gray, but the tulips were popping. The light was pale, but the indigo lake, threading through the gardens, glowed.
How beautiful it all is, I thought. And also how sad.
Once upon a time, this was going to be my forever home. Instead it had proved to be just another brief stop.
When my wife and I fled this place, in fear for our sanity and physical safety, I wasn't sure when I'd ever come back. That was January 2020. Now, fifteen months later, here I was, days after waking to thirty-two missed calls and then one short, heart-racing talk with Granny: Harry . . . Grandpa's gone.
The wind picked up, turned colder. I hunched my shoulders, rubbed my arms, regretted the thinness of my white shirt. I wished I'd not changed out of my funeral suit. I wished I'd thought to bring a coat. I turned my back to the wind and saw, looming behind me, the Gothic ruin, which in reality was no more Gothic than the Millennium Wheel. Some clever architect, some bit of stagecraft. Like so much around here, I thought.
I moved from the stone wall to a small wooden bench. Sitting, I checked my phone again, peered up and down the garden path.
Where are they?
Another gust of wind. Funny, it reminded me of Grandpa. His wintry demeanor, maybe. Or his icy sense of humor. I recalled one particular shooting weekend years ago. A mate, just trying to make conversation, asked Grandpa what he thought of my new beard, which had been causing concern in the family and controversy in the press. Should the Queen Force Prince Harry to Shave? Grandpa looked at my mate, looked at my chin, broke into a devilish grin. THAT'S no beard!
Everyone laughed. To beard or not to beard, that was the question, but leave it to Grandpa to demand more beard. Let grow the luxurious bristles of a bloody Viking!
I thought of Grandpa's strong opinions, his many passions-carriage driving, barbecuing, shooting, food, beer. The way he embraced life. He had that in common with my mother. Maybe that was why he'd been such a fan. Long before she was Princess Diana, back when she was simply Diana Spencer, kindergarten teacher, secret girlfriend of Prince Charles, my grandfather was her loudest advocate. Some said he actually brokered my parents' marriage. If so, an argument could be made that Grandpa was the Prime Cause in my world. But for him, I wouldn't be here.
Neither would my older brother.
Then again, maybe our mother would be here. If she hadn't married Pa . . .
I recalled one recent chat, just me and Grandpa, not long after he'd turned ninety-seven. He was thinking about the end. He was no longer capable of pursuing his passions, he said. And yet the thing he missed most was work. Without work, he said, everything crumbles. He didn't seem sad, just ready. You have to know when it's time to go, Harry.
I glanced now into the distance, towards the mini skyline of crypts and monuments alongside Frogmore. The Royal Burial Ground. Final resting place for so many of us, including Queen Victoria. Also, the notorious Wallis Simpson. Also, her doubly notorious husband Edward, the former King and my great-great-uncle. After Edward gave up his throne for Wallis, after they fled Britain, both of them fretted about their ultimate return-both obsessed about being buried right here. The Queen, my grandmother, granted their plea. But she placed them at a distance from everyone else, beneath a stooped plane tree. One last finger wag, perhaps. One final exile, maybe. I wondered how Wallis and Edward felt now about all their fretting. Did any of it matter in the end? I wondered if they wondered at all. Were they floating in some airy realm, still mulling their choices, or were they Nowhere, thinking Nothing? Could there really be Nothing after this? Does consciousness, like time, have a stop? Or maybe, I thought, just maybe, they're here right now, next ...
