100 Books Like A Door Behind a Door

Katya Apekina’s debut novel, The Deeper the Water the Uglier the Fish, compelled me to do something that I have not done in a very long time: read an entire book, cover to cover, in a single night.

There are certain writers who excel at meting out their prose with deceptive flatness, or muted lucidity (Raymond Carver and Marguerite Duras being two prime examples), and it is this “awesome simplicity,” of which the jazz musician Charles Mingus raved, which Apekina deftly demonstrates in her rendering of a searing family drama and modern American gothic.

Subtly weaving together a tapestry of voices and shifting perspectives, the novel centers on two teenage daughters—Edith, sixteen, and Mae, fourteen—who go to live with their dad in New York, after their mother has been hospitalized for a suicide attempt and breakdown.

Their dad, about whom Mae has no memories and Edith has a scattered scarcity… show more.

I savor and relish stories that play with the dynamics and boundaries of reality and fiction, truth and illusion, and Nicholas Rombes’s Lisa 2 is dissonantly steeped in these hybrid conceptual relations.

Revolving around a snapshot of an idyllic family vacation, that morphs into a portrait of family disintegration, with a Lisa 2 Apple computer (1984 model) enacting the role of devil’s advocate, this novel plays out new-wavishly lo-fi, generating its own glitchy nostalgia in a liminal haunt.

What is not there casts a visceral and auditory spell, or a space in which memory and imagination proliferate like incubi rabbits. There is a line spoken by a character in David Lynch’s film, Lost Highway —a creed that I liken to the unstable calculus of Lisa 2: “I like to remember things my own way…not necessarily the way they happened.”  

Discovery has its own timeline and date with destiny, and in the case of Meridel Le Sueur’s small masterwork, The Girl, that is unequivocally true.

Written in 1939, it had to wait nearly forty years until it saw the light of publication day (1978), thanks to John Crawford of West End Press, whose mission was “to print works by American writers neglected by publishers in the mainstream."

The Girl is set in St. Paul, Minnesota, during the Depression, with most of its action centered in a speakeasy known as the German Village. This is where the protagonist, a young naif known only as “Girl,” works as waitress and initiates her crash course into a harsh and unsentimental education—an extended blues song chronicling her passage from innocence to experience.

There is a raw and taut musicality, a nerve-strung throb to Le Sueur’s prose, as she wrings hard-boiled lyricism from passages… show more.

Efficiency has become the catchword and hell-hound in our society. And in Hiroko Oyamada’s mordant fable, efficiency has taken on the form of a sprawling factory, a city unto itself, which is regulating, ordering, and arranging its brave new world one rote directive after the next.

Here’s what I saw when metaphysically touring the interior: An emaciated Kafka stooped over one of the desks, half-obscured behind a tower of documents, staring out bleary-eyed at the ledge of a window where black birds are gathering.

Across from him, a nerve-bitten Nietzsche paces, furiously smoking a cigarette, and refashioning his notions of the abyss to fit the conditions in which he finds himself atrophying. The abyss, now an omnipotent complex, an unnamable morass with a bottomless capacity for soul-feeding.

People are no longer staring into the abyss, they are wearing it, breathing it, speaking it, and perpetuating its slow-drip filtration to the… show more.

This riveting whodunit captures the tension between native and naturalized citizens, something I’m familiar with. A Moroccan American man is killed in a hit-and-run in a small desert town in California. His daughter Nora returns home to the Mojave, determined to find the killer. The story is told through multiple voices, some of them immigrants: Nora’s mom, who still dreams of her old life in Casablanca; an undocumented man who witnessed the incident but is afraid to come forward; and the victim himself in the days before dying, when his future looked bright. The secrets Nora discovers about her family and her town, heartbreaking as they are, help her find love and also a sense of home that immigrants like me spend our entire lives trying to reach.

I love quiet novels that pack a punch, particularly when the writing is gorgeous and wise, as in this case. The book takes place in the real Las Vegas, where people live and work, and it pulls us deep into a community and its fault lines.

Four very different characters are drawn together as they are propelled into situations where the stakes are high yet intimately human. They must face the crucial issues of their time—war, poverty, sanctuary—and the most terrifying question: what kind of person am I?

It is impossible to separate Cather’s heroine Alexandra Bergson from the Nebraska prairie she farms.

Alexandra’s character mirrors the land she, as the eldest child, inherited from her father and which she devotes her life to working. When other families give up, sell off, and move on, she doggedly remains through harsh winters and, against all likelihood, prospers as an unmarried woman managing a vast expanse of land.

Like the land, she remains both knowable and unknowable, at once harsh and majestic.

Possessing an external manner that is reticent, internally hers is an indomitable spirit. She is among the most inimitable of women to have ever appeared in print.

All Her Little Secrets brings the office thriller into the 21st century. Gone is the stereotypical white male protagonist. Ellice Littlejohn is a woman and an Ivy-educated Black lawyer with a harrowing back story full of poverty, abuse, and addiction. This novel doesn’t shy away from tackling institutionalized corporate racism, but make no mistake: it’s a thriller through and through. It’s wildly entertaining to follow Ellice in a climactic chase scene through office cubicles that are almost as adrenaline-spiked as Vertical Run.

Flower, Grand, First is a collection of poems about Santa Ana, California and Jalisco, Mexico. The title comes from three streets in Santa Ana, where my husband’s family has lived for more than one hundred years. Hernandez’s poems are about place and displacement and examine what it feels like to be an outsider trying to make sense of life in a strange land, always searching for home. In the wonderful poem “My Father Shows Me Catalina” Hernandez writes: “Smile so you both know it’s okay that you are different. But once-in-a-while, the division is so clean it’ll cut into you.”

This book calls itself a novel, but it is deeply intertwined with the author’s own life and experiences as a second-generation immigrant from Pakistan. The chapters often read more like incisive personal essays than segments advancing the plot of a conventional novel, as the author grapples with the economic obsessions and spiritual poverty of contemporary American culture, the experience of everyday racism and the rage it provokes, and the feelings of alienation that many immigrants feel from both their country of origin and their adopted home. 

The central preoccupation of the book is the difficulty of living as a complete, nuanced, self-contradictory individual in a world that forces you to choose—between cultures in conflict with each other, between absolutist world views that permit no ambivalence, between economic success and authenticity. It is a tension that may be especially pronounced in an immigrant’s life, but one that entraps everyone and results… show more.