For The Independent, Cahal Milmo pens a profile on Marsha Mehran, bestselling author, noted beauty, and adamant recluse. Spending her time between exile and literature, Mehran championed her work—compulsively, mordantly—above all else:
What remained for her was her writing, a pursuit which those who knew her were already aware she chased to the exclusion of almost all else. Mr Collins [her husband] says: “When she wrote, it was completely single-minded. For her first book, she spent three months in pyjamas and ate nothing other than Häagen-Dazs. I may as well have not been there.”
