100 Books Like Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage

When I picked up Tsumura’s first novel to be translated into English, I’d just given notice at my hectic corporate job. So when the burned-out narrator tells her employment agency she’s looking for an easy job that’s “ideally, something along the lines of sitting all day in a chair,” I could relate.

She searches for that elusive work-life balance at a series of strange positions, but when she lands a plum gig working in a small hut in a forest, the story’s disparate strands weave together into an emotionally satisfying whole.

I fell in love with this beautifully written book about female friendship, set-in modern-day London. The opening shows us three young women lounging in London Fields one summer, all of them filled with an indisputable sense that they are on the brink of life, their horizons lit up with promise. Ten years later, those promises have failed to materialize. The characters are confused, struggling, and envious of what each of the others has. All three are strong, flawed characters, and their lives, choices, and mistakes feel very real and poignant.

A master of the flawed and loveable heroine, O’Donoghue’s writing is both deeply comforting and immensely frustrating – because every wry observation is so relatable I can’t believe I didn’t think of it first.

Exploring life in GFC-era Ireland through the wide eyes of a broke, experience-hungry university student and floundering graduate, this story is a tribute to friendship, self discovery, and all the missteps of newfound freedom.

The deeper into the story I went, the closer I felt to my eighteen-year-old self: naive and desperate not to be, nervous about the power in the currency of youth and eager to spend it, full of love and pride and optimism.

I can’t wait to get my hands on a physical copy so I can slap sticky tabs on every page and recall every sparkling insight, quippy conversation, and touching moment.

Unlike the other recommendations, the plus-sized protagonist in this book is a man. Arthur Opp is a lonely shut-in who has lost his career, his friend, and his family of origin. His main solace is his correspondence with a former student, who, one day, asks him for help in guiding her son, Kel. 

From that point forward, the story is told from the alternating perspectives of Arthur and Kel. Both are plagued by isolation and tragedy. Though Arthur views himself as part of the shared soul of the lonely, he nonetheless begins to welcome people back into his life again and extols the virtues of found family to Kel.

This is a haunting, yet hopeful, book that stays with the reader for a very long time.

Riley Mays is a little weirdo. I say that with love! I was also a little weirdo when I was her age. And, just like a lot of little weirdos around the world, her peers don’t always “get her,” which can be tough since she’s desperate to fit in. Been there too, girl.

What I admire about Riley is that, after some consternation, she slowly sheds her insecurities and dives head-first into being her truest self. It’s terrifying, exhilarating, and not without complications! But Riley’s sense of humor keeps her afloat, which, as any fan of comedy will tell you, is the key to survival.

It’s the sweetest feeling in the world to find your people. Author Rachel Elliot shows us how to do it.

This is a peculiar and marvelous book about birth families, adopted families, and “found” families, and how each of these can be equally screwed up.

Starting in Ireland in the 1940s, the story is peppered with sharp, clever dialog and vivid, fully-human characters. I love how the narrator struggles with his own heart for decades, unable to decide what he wants, who he loves, what’s right, what’s wrong, etc.—in other words, all the stuff I haven’t figured out yet myself. 

Coincidence also plays a huge role in this book, basically making an ass of everyone, which I find oddly comforting since it reminds me that part of being human is having very little control over my own life. Painfully funny and brilliant from cover to cover. 

This book is about using some magic sprinkles one day and falling asleep, but waking up in your dreams as a doctor, lawyer, dentist, or even a firefighter is showing young Black kids that they can be all those things and to not let the color of their skin or how they chose to wear their hair stop them from achieving those goals and dreams.

Mystical quests are all well and good, but most things, even our quests, can be fodder for self-delusion. That’s just how humans are built. Learning the particulars of how we’re built is a powerful way to lessen that delusion. Sooner or later, some actual self-work becomes necessary. I haven’t come across a more effective roadmap to the self than what’s found in the Pathwork Lectures of Eva Pierrakos. This is channeled work, the idea of which may make you punch your computer screen. But the information in these lectures, about the inner workings of the human psyche, seems spot on. This book contains a sampling from a few of the lectures, a sort of dim sum of psychological wisdom.

Though written in the 1930s, Am I a Redundant Human Being? was not published until 2001, several decades after Hartwig’s death in 1967 (the English translation appeared in 2010).

The novel’s narrator, Aloisia Schmidt, reflects on her desire for external validation and a more exciting life, as well as the constant feeling of invisibility. Though she is only about thirty in 1930 Vienna, her ambition is constrained by disappointment, and the coming decade promises more of the same. 

I love this book for the way it brings together in one place (a graveyard) a panoply of different characters from different walks of South Asian life. I find Anjum (the third gender “hijra” character who begins the narrative) most compelling. Her marginal relation to all the various mainstream cultures sets a template for how storytelling works across cultures, languages, and political perspectives.

I also love a part of the book critics found puzzling–when the novel shifts to the perspective of the former intelligence officer. It’s reminiscent of Conrad’s The Secret Agent and Under Western Eyes, Ngugi wa Thiong’o’s A Grain of Wheat, or House of Glass, the final novel in the Buru quartet of novels by Pramoedya Ananta Toer.

Like those novels, it compels a reader to undergo radical shifts in political and cultural perspectives. It’s simultaneously a political novel, a thriller, several coming-of-age novels spliced together, and… show more.