I often find books by creative people disappointing. Strangely, those who excel in their work often seem inarticulate when it comes to explaining their own genius. For me, Charlie Chaplin is the paradigmatic case. An incomparable genius on the screen, yet his autobiography gives little insight into his talent.
But this is not the case with Words Without Music by Philip Glass. His account of his development as a musician is fascinating. I only wish I knew more about music and music theory. I was particularly interested in his encounters with yoga and Indian music.