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 Diana, Princess of Wales, was laid to rest, billions wondered what the princes must be thinking and feeling—and how their lives would play out from that point on. For Harry, this is that story at last. With its raw, unflinching honesty, "Spare" is a landmark publication full of insight, revelation, self-examination, and hard-won wisdom about the eternal power of love over grief.
Copyright © 2023 by Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Random House and the House colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Published in the United Kingdom by Transworld Publishers Ltd, a division of Penguin Random House UK and in Canada by Random House Canada.
Part Two opening photograph © MoD/Newspix International
Prince Harry wishes to support British charities with donations from his proceeds from SPARE. The Duke of Sussex has donated $1,500,000 to Sentebale, an organization he founded with Prince Seeiso in their mothers’ legacies, which supports vulnerable children and young people in Lesotho and Botswana affected by HIV/AIDS. Prince Harry will also donate to the nonprofit organization WellChild in the amount of £300,000. WellChild, which he has been Royal patron of for fifteen years, makes it possible for children and young people with complex health needs to be cared for at home instead of hospital, wherever possible.
Hardback ISBN 9780593593806
Ebook ISBN 9780593593813
Cover design: Christopher Brand
Front-cover photograph: Ramona Rosales
Back-cover photograph: © Martin Keene - PA Images/PA Images via Getty Images
ep_prh_6.0_142385339_c0_r0
The past is never dead. It’s not even past.
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:
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.
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.
Everyone laughed. To beard or not to beard, that was the question, but leave it to Grandpa to demand
I thought of Grandpa’s strong opinions, his many passions—carriage driving, barbecuing, shooting, food, beer. The way he embraced
Neither would my older brother.
Then again, maybe our mother
