Books like Book of Hours — picked by fans

I adore this book because it is so unique—I’ve never read anything quite this specific or niche which seems so all-encompassing.

It is the story of a life lost, and a life found. Of a father that dies and how the recovery of his daughter is tied up with the start of a new relationship—with a goshawk.

At the outset, the author is so wonderfully eloquent on all aspects of loss; the sudden jarring sense of confusion when a person dies and you have their possessions still in your hands; the struggle to keep in touch with reality (“for weeks I felt like I was made of dully burning metal”); the desperation to see the back of grief when new relationships are desperately grasped at, and fail of course, because of that desperation. 

The goshawk saves her (and us) from the darkness, as she becomes gripped with the… show more.

I first met this book on the last visit Gary and I made to a beloved bookstore in Seattle. After he died, I remembered it and tracked it down. It is an accordion book, its folded pages nested in a sturdy box. It was made, Carson writes, as an epitaph for her brother.

Among the folds, we find ephemera evoking his memory, and hers: fragments of notes, torn photos, drawings, paintings, scribbles. Running through the pages—a portion appears on the left side of each spread—is Carson’s translation of a poem by the Latin poet Catullus, written after the death of his own brother. The result is an assemblage that testifies to the chaos of grief and the curious beauty it can hold.

After Gary’s death, reading became unexpectedly painful. We had both loved books and reading together. The loss of that connection, combined with the brain fog that often accompanies grief, made reading difficult for a good while.

Poetry, though, was different. It wasn’t that it was easier than prose; I was still capable of losing my way mid-sentence. But poetry’s spaciousness—its distilled economy of words surrounded by large and quiet margins—helped the pages feel less overwhelming.

I love this collection by Tess Gallagher, written after the death of her husband, the short story writer and poet Raymond Carver. It is luminous. These poems do what poetry does best: speak what seems unspeakable, and make room for us to breathe as it speaks.

Long familiar to me, John O’Donohue’s books became a particular solace when grief arrived. I would recommend any of his books.

O’Donohue lived on the western coast of Ireland, and he had a distinctive wisdom about threshold spaces—those places between the life we have known and the one we cannot yet see—and a compassionate way of inviting us to receive the grace that comes as we stumble our way across those thresholds.

Eternal Echoes is one of my favorites among O’Donohue’s books. I am especially taken by his chapter about absence, where he acknowledges the deep ache of loss while also emphasizing that our losses are not utterly empty; they hold a hidden eternity that does not abandon us. I am both consoled and challenged by his assurance that grief is a mystery that knows its way.

In Find A Place For Me, Deirdre Fagan describes with an attentive eye the delicate emotional negotiations between a couple when the husband is diagnosed with ALS.

Life will never be the same and the sense of dislocation is profound. I am deeply affected by this traumatic and irreversible change.

The heartbreak goes from noticing the snacks carefully packed for a trip the family would not be able to take any longer to staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, ‘—as if I were watching someone else’s life in a movie. I wasn’t in my own body.’

But she deals with the challenges with such courage, honesty, and an open heart that in the end, this novel gave me great hope in the human spirit.

Like Opelt, I believed I was well equipped to grieve well before suffering found me. Like her, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Her book was solace because it refused to shy away from the complexity and sometimes downright strangeness of grief. Her exploration of historical rituals for processing grief in community sparked my imagination for more ways of restoring lost practices and finding new ones for engaging loss, remembering well, and honoring life with those I love.  

C.S. Lewis is best known for his Narnia books, but the book of his that sticks with me the most is this one, a first-person contemporaneous account of the famed fiction writer’s mourning for his wife. He began a journal shortly after she died and stopped when he reached the end of the notebook and then published it.

When I read it, I was dealing with intense grief that I felt no one around me understood, and reading Lewis’ journal/memoir made me feel like someone living in the same headspace had reached out his hand to me. One of the early statements in the book struck such a chord with me that I remember it to this day, more than 30 years later: “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”

This memoir spoke to my heart. When Gary Ferguson’s wife dies in a canoeing accident in northern Ontario, he turns to the wilderness they both loved for comfort. As he journeys to the remote places where he and his wife had shared many adventures, he leans into the natural world to learn from its cycles how to move through the landscape of loss. There are many paths through grief, but like Ferguson, I turned to the wilderness to find my way again.

This book is absolutely breathtaking and I cry every time I read it.

The illustrations are gorgeous, and I find it so soothing to think about my dead dogs being in a version of heaven as beautiful as the one that Catia Chien has illustrated. My favorite part of this book is how it is narrated by the old and dying dog himself, and when he finally dies and becomes part of the sky––his sweet face continues to look down on his beloved small human (“Little”) and her new puppy.

All the pets we love are always part of us forever, and I like to think they’re looking out for us. I’m tearing up just writing this!

This was a totally unexpected find at the airport, of all places, but I have read it several times, and I still page through it regularly. Written in bite-sized quotes with lovely illustrations, this book is the perfect companion for someone in grief (with “grief-brain”) who cannot imagine reading an entire book.

It has great, practical, and comforting tips for self-care, for honoring your pain and loss, all while reminding you to find ways to cling to hope, even as you grieve. A beautiful gift for others as well.