151 books like The Emily Trilogy

Anne Shirley is a perfectly imperfect heroine, and that’s why I love her. She’s creative and imaginative and gets so lost in her daydreams that she can forget the flour in a cake or to cover leftover pudding, leaving easy access for a peckish mouse. Her temper matches her red hair, and she refuses to let anyone insult her dignity. She dreams of meeting kindred spirits—those individuals you just click with.

Although I first discovered Anne as a teen, I’ve returned to her throughout my life, and at each stage, she’s there like an old friend. The best part of knowing Anne has been meeting kindred spirits from all around the globe who share their own stories of reading and loving Anne.  

If you’re a kindred spirit who’s never read this book, now is the time. This is an empowering story about defining oneself despite the small boxes that others attempt to place us in. It is the tale of setting out to find yourself and living the life you want.

As a plus, Montgomery’s unequaled descriptions of the natural world of Ontario’s Muskoka region are a balm and respite. I never tire of returning to this novel because I love the personal growth of the heroine, Valancy Stirling, the unexpected twists and turns, and Montgomery’s dry humor and beautiful prose. 

I love this book because it has so many layers that appeal to me: a historical period, the challenges of growing up, and a young woman who dreams of being a writer.

As an author, Jo March’s writing aspirations spoke to me, although I think I saw a bit of me in each of the four March sisters. That breadth is what welcomes me as a reader each time I return to the novel. And—no spoilers—I still sometimes scratch my head over the twist in the romance plot that didn’t go as I anticipated when I first read the book! 

Emma Tennant was one of Ted Hughes’s lovers in the 1970s, at the height of Sylvia Plath’s early fame. I arrived at her memoir as research for Loving Sylvia Plath: A Reclamation, but I stayed because Tennant’s writing is so witty and clever, full of riotous anecdotes of her time publishing chic literary magazines in 1970s London (she tries to steal, and sell, a family snapshot of Princess Margaret, nude on a French beach, for seed money, which ends in hilarious disaster).

Tennant never descends into self-pity or high drama in describing the dark and mysterious Hughes, who believes a random fox on the road is his dead wife returning to him and tries to convince Tennant that frozen salmon at a third-rate London restaurant is fresh and delivering life force to him. Instead, she sneaks in the violence done to her by Hughes in moments drenched in myth… show more.

I love nothing more than a book that unsettles me, that I grasp almost bodily in the reading but have to return to again and again to truly understand. Lose Your Mother is that kind of book. In Chapter Seven, Hartman tells us that, while working in the archive of the Atlantic slave trade, she came across a scandal: on board the slave ship Recovery, two African girls—one named Venus—are murdered by the captain, John Kimber.

A trial ensues. A mate is put on the stand, who admits there was a book on the ship, a list of all its horrors, The Dead Book, but it’s lost now. Lose Your Mother is Hartman’s attempt to write her version of The Dead Book without committing the same violence against the girls that they endured in their short lives. How she wonders, can we reimagine life for Venus when all we know… show more.

Lacy Crawford’s memoir of sexual assault at the elite St. Paul’s School straddles the precarious line between lyric and reportage. Crawford shies from nothing: we are there as she is held down and orally raped by two upperclassmen; as she describes the consensual sex she undertakes in an attempt to reckon with her rape, as even her own parents abandon her.

Crawford spends the last third of the book untangling the web of documents that prove the school knew of both the assault and her resulting STI (oral herpes that went so far into her throat that doctors couldn’t identify the sores, leaving her sick for months). The horrific burning of her throat keeps her from being able to speak or sing in the school choir, a metaphor for St. Paul’s deliberate destruction of evidence of her rape and subsequent illness to ensure legal protection for her rapists and the… show more.

I loved Till We Have Faces, but not just for the most obvious reasons, like the story’s content. For me, it was the realization that C.S. Lewis was allowing me to discover the meaning of the story gradually.

The novel invited me into a mystery and let revelation slowly come. I’ve found so many of my greatest ah-ha! moments in life have come this way—not because someone preached a message, or commanded me… Not because a person told me the answers up front… Not even necessarily because outside circumstances demanded it. The much-needed revelation slowly unfolded in my heart and mind as I probed (and sometimes wrestled) for the truth.

I was quietly led and guided to the truth… and that’s exactly what this story does.

I’m the youngest of six sons. Our father read this book aloud to each of us. By the time I came along, he’d had lots of practice. He had distinct voices for all the characters. I can still hear him doing Jim’s voice after Jim gets whacked by the rattlesnake. I had nightmares for a week.

Your grasp of reality is altered when you read Huck Finn as a kid. Twain sweeps you out onto the Mississippi, where you mentally, emotionally, and physically, yes, physically, endure the journey with Huck and Jim.

I didn’t realize until I read the novel years later that this book was the first to blow my mind. And what was I? Nine? Maybe ten? Thanks, Dad!

This immediately immersed me in another time and place. Apparently, I’m very clear in my bookish likes, because it was recommended to me multiple times due to the combination of nuns and sapphic content. Luckily, it lived up to the recommendations!

It is very well written and extremely atmospheric, and it drew me right into its medieval world. Groff managed to create characters who feel appropriate to their era but who are also accessible to a modern reader, which is not an easy task. This helped me to become emotionally invested in the book.

I was about thirteen years old when I picked up Charles Portis’ book, and from the very first line, I wanted to be Mattie Ross. The novel was the first Western I remember reading and remains imprinted on my brain as a first to mash up the traditional themes of the righteous Code of the West and the hopelessness of a world awash in lawlessness and violence, all the while eliciting whoops of laughter.

Mattie was the first female protagonist I remember encountering with pluck and impertinence to match the infamous U.S. Marshal Rooster Cogburn and inspire my own.