The best books about weird groups of people

I read Virginia Woolf’s novel To the Lighthouse in college and have revisited it throughout my life. Woolf’s writing is exquisite: she can take a microscope to the physical environment, then move sweepingly into a panorama in one stunning sentence. In a sardonic voice, she breaks open the moment to reveal its intricate workings.

In this novel, Woolf captures the complexity of the Ramsay family and the weird group of people attached to them: philosophers, poets, lovers, and the artist Lily Briscoe, whose attempt to finish her painting is at the heart of the novel. The book veers between the inner world of the individual and the outer world of human relationships in a complex, haunting way that became part of my psyche when I first read it and stayed there.

I love all of Tana French’s taut, riveting detective novels, but this book is my favorite.

When Cassie Maddox goes undercover to investigate a murder, she finds herself enmeshed with the dead girl’s quirky group of housemates. As she’s drawn into their lives, she is increasingly emotionally involved with them in ways that charge the atmosphere with exquisite tension and regret.

I loved the way this novel drew me into the exuberant household so that, like Cassie, I fell in love with everyone, wishing fervently for things to turn out okay and knowing there was no way they could. 

Since watching HBO’s The Vow, I’ve been a total NXIVM geek. Scarred is definitely the best book on the subject, providing an insider’s account of the rise and fall of the Albany “sex-cult” from the point of view of a smart, caring, ethical person caught in the middle of something she can’t control.

Though a memoir, this book has the cadence of a novel. It depicts the cult in ways that illuminate its appeal while building to an inevitably disastrous conclusion. I love the way Sarah Edmondson manages to convey a clear sense of why she was drawn to this weird group of people and how they ultimately failed her. 

This novel has been with me all my life. I encountered it when I was fifteen (it was on the shelf where I was babysitting) and have continued to return to it.

Last year, I began reading it again because I was in Valetta, Malta, one of the many nouns that begin with the letter V in this inscrutable story. In Valetta, I was able to track down the street where Benny Profane, the novel’s sometime protagonist and eternal “schlemiel,” searches for mysterious characters. Strait Street’s walls still bear faded signage from old bars like ghosts of Pynchon’s past (he apparently docked in Valetta while serving in the Navy).

Every setting in this novel, from Florence to Manhattan, teems with weird groups of people, but I especially love “The Whole Sick Crew,” whose jazzy Manhattan party establishes some of the novel’s main threads—if “threads” is the right word for something so strange and amorphous. 

When I taught in Okinawa, the base library happened to have a few books by Iris Murdoch: I read one and was hooked. I read as many of her books as I could find, even buying bootleg copies in Taipei.

Several years later I was teaching in England when the librarian mentioned that the officers’ wives’ book club was scheduled to meet Murdoch but none of them had ever read her. Thrilled, I joined them in Murdoch’s husband’s messy Oxford office where I literally knelt at the author’s feet and asked her stupid questions. Were her novels autobiographical? OF COURSE NOT, she snapped. Everything, she insisted, was invented.

After her death, I read biographies of her, and of course, it turned out that the weird groups of people she wrote about were often based on people she knew. This book hosts one of my favorite groups of Murdoch characters who find themselves in “muddles” involving love, death, adultery, and philosophy.