57 books like The Liars' Club

I loved this book because it captures childhood in the rawest way—messy, painful, confusing, and resilient.

Walls writes about instability and survival with such clarity that I found myself nodding through entire chapters. I related deeply to the burden of growing up too fast and learning how to take care of people before you ever learned how to take care of yourself.

What moved me most was the love within the chaos—the complicated, contradictory love between parent and child that shapes you long after you’ve grown. It reminded me that you can carry pain and tenderness at the same time, and both can be true.

I was deeply affected by this, like she was confiding in me.

Whether her memories were tragic, ugly, hilarious, witty, classy, silly, poignant, or just plain practical, it was like we were sharing a glass of wine and she was telling me everything. 

I loved that she sent me every feeling of the rainbow, and each was felt deeply. I love when a story makes me laugh and cry. It was inspiring and beautiful to spend some time with this poet, reminiscing about her early years, before she was the Maya we know now.

Also, I feel schooled in what it was like to be black in America at that time, and what a gutsy journey she was on. It was an important eye-opener, as well as a warm invitation.

This is the only book I put in the hands of new memoir writers who want to understand the difference between memoir and autobiography, who are endeavoring to learn structure and who need to understand how to write a book that takes on one single aspect of their lives at a time.   

An engaging story of how a person can transform her life through travel and formal education.

While teaching English at a community college, I assigned this memoir to my students. Many of my students came from disadvantaged backgrounds and could identify with the childhood hardships and abuse experienced by Tara Westover.

I was delighted to share a story that resonates with my own life and demonstrates how a young person, even against overwhelming obstacles, can overcome insecurities, transform personal views, and navigate beyond the limitations imposed by one’s childhood.

Since I spent part of my childhood living within an hour of Cambridge University, I also enjoyed the part of the story that transpired in the halls and turrets of an old English institution.

This book was an integral resource when I began to write my book. It helped me shape the structure of my book.

F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, “If you have anything to say, anything you feel nobody has ever said before, you have got to feel it so desperately that you will find some way to say it that nobody has ever found before, so that the thing you have to say and the way of saying it blend as one matter—as indissolubly as if they were conceived together.”

This, and other books I've read, did this. My favorite books of all time have inventive structures. And reading these helped me find mine.

I aspire to be like Charlotte A. Cavatica, the highly intelligent spider and creative artist here. When she weaves the words “Some Pig” into her web to help save her friend Wilbur the pig from slaughter, and the farmer tells his wife, “[W]e have no ordinary pig,” the wife quite rightly corrects him: “It seems to me we have no ordinary spider.” I love Charlotte not only for her extraordinary loyalty as a friend (working all night and sacrificing meals by devoting her web to messages about Wilbur), but for her devotion to words (“terrific” and “radiant” are impressive vocabulary for a spider, and highly suitable adjectives for a pig-rescuing project). 

Above all, I applaud Charlotte’s humility. After tirelessly creating her spun language masterpieces, she backs into a corner of the barn, allowing Wilbur to take the spotlight for her efforts. Even as she succeeds in garnering wide attention… show more.

Because it’s twisted, tragic, and hilarious.

This book is written from the point of view of a high-class Brit with alcohol and drug addiction problems who has made a complete, disastrous mess of his life. He reveals the familial dysfunction that has led him to his present state in such an offhand, almost careless way that he somehow manages to make a childhood that includes being sexually abused by his father, as well as other horrors, humorous.

His narrative voice felt to me like a 21st-century version of Kingsley Amis. Somehow, as he takes you on his journey of awful and self-defeating choices, you still want him to solve his problems, escape disaster, and become at least somewhat whole and functional, but alas, you know he won’t. And, for some reason, it’s okay. 

I laughed, I cried, I felt deeply understood, and could not put this book down.

Dolly Alderton captures the messy, funny, and often disorienting transition from post-college freedom into the reality of adulthood with remarkable honesty. She has a gift for poking fun at the chaos of that stage of life while also honoring its beauty and heartbreak.

What I love most is how the book centers female friendship as the real emotional backbone of life, gently pushing romance out of the spotlight where it so often dominates these stories. It’s a reminder that the relationships that shape us most aren’t always the romantic ones.

Every chapter made me want to close the book and get on a plane to see my girlfriends.

Of this set of books, the first two are my faves. Who needs horror when it’s right here in St. Aubyn’s horrific childhood with his creepy father?

It becomes perfectly understandable why the young Edward dove into a life of utter self-destruction. When he becomes a drug addict, his sheer self-obliteration reaches epic proportions. I have to admit, I was awed. It’s not so much the stories of his sick father and oblivious mother or his gleeful romp through degradation that compelled me to keep reading. It’s the writing. These are the best descriptions of drug use that I’ve ever come across.

The writing reminded me of my favorite movie, Trainspotting, which managed to visually convey the effects of heroin addiction in a similar way. 

Iyer invited me into his two-room flat in the neighborhood of Deer’s Slope, a suburb of Nara in Japan, in the dying days of autumn following his father-in-law’s death.

His descriptions painted scenes of nuanced colors and textures, juxtaposing old and new, thick with metaphor and simile—the only way to talk about the impermanence he explores. His question: “How to hold on to things we love even though we know that we and they are dying?” My question as well.

I watched him play ping pong with quirky Japanese elders at the local health club and wandered through his thoughts on family, spirituality, endings, love, and timelessness. The book has the gentleness, purposefulness, and peace of a slow walk through a Japanese garden.