Books like Ghost Wall

This is a meta-fictional novel about the fragile state of memory and interpretation.

Stories can save us, and in the case of 13-year-old Briony Tallis, stories can ruin us. A single accusation is enough to destroy her sister, a young man’s life, and their future together. It shows us that the art of writing can be both sacred and profane.

It is a novel inhabited by ghosts, one that taught me the importance of absence in storytelling, of the silences and liminal spaces when writing about epic events. The style obfuscates the plot, then later renders it in vivid detail.

What lives between the lines is critical. It asks if forgiveness and acts of retribution can counter the death that eventually comes for all of us.

I am in awe of the repressed, elegiac emotion that Ishiguro brings to his characters.

Never Let Me Go kept me in a state of constant tension between Kathy’s version of events (which is full of omissions and self-deception) and the version I was constructing in my own head (which was so often at odds with hers).

This is something Ishiguro also does brilliantly in other books, but here I was particularly drawn to the deft way he shows us a morally bankrupt adult world through the eyes of an adolescent protagonist – that’s exactly the territory I write.

Like the fish who doesn’t realise the water is there, Kathy struggles to understand the true nature of Hailsham until it’s far too late; and there’s real moral anger behind the quiet delivery.

I’ve always been fascinated by strange social enclaves and secretive, sealed-off, private worlds, and this book has both.

But in fact, the thing I admire most here is the sense of place and atmosphere. Tartt writes with a lush, immersive style which I found is increasingly compelling as the book went on.

Using a murder as the gateway drug to what’s really a literary fiction character study is both sneaky and brilliant: I was hooked by the story in the first chapter, but once I’d finished the book, it was Richard’s voice, those eerie characters, their strange insular co-dependency, and the biting Vermont winter landscape that really stayed with me.

Coming of age, to me, is in part about recognising that the adult world to which you’ve entrusted your childhood is not what it claimed to be: that adults can be fallible, weak, morally culpable, emotionally absent.

Giovanna in The Lying Life of Adults embarks on the same kind of desperate, determined effort to weld her family back together that Scott does in my book. The way she tries to navigate parental failure without letting it crush her is achingly sad at times, but the novel is also loud and raw and full of life.

Something I like hugely is that it’s a book which really trusts its readers: Giovanna gets no clear answers, no neat character arc. Nothing is tidy or comfortable. This is adolescence as it really feels. 

I loved the mixture of third and first person that this story is told in. The main character Dillon is both fun, sad, and imminently well-drawn. His harrowing dash from Perth to Sydney, his relationships with Amy, Pastor Pete, wonderful Dixie, and Stephen, and his sheer will to be his authentic self, had me both scared and happy for him.

I loved the mixture of coming-out and coming-of-age with some thriller elements thrown in, not something that I see a lot of in coming-of-age novels.

What comfort library would be complete without Emily Henry?

I’ll read anything she writes, but Poppy and Alex’s love story is the stuff of my dreams. Friends to lovers, split timelines, and more yearning than I know what to do with Seamlessly blending humour and heart and set between Palm Springs, New York, Italy, and somewhere in the sedate American midwest, You and Me on Vacation was the antidote to my mid-lockdown claustrophobia.

I like to read my fluff on the treadmill – it keeps my brain more occupied than music or podcasts, so I’m less likely to remember how much I hate working out – and it was so delicious I found myself looking forward to time at the gym. A true feat.

I’ve read this twice so far. It’s an odd, lonely book whose protagonist walks the knife-edge of sanity but is harmless and likable, though she is so timid that she has no friends. Her immediate family has also passed on. She finally advertises for a friend who must answer to the name ”Penelope” and develops a confusing friendship with the woman who responds to the ad.

I loved the book’s compassionate exploration of the varieties of oddity afflicting modern souls, as well as the story’s steady but subtle progression to a horrifying revelation. The resulting catharsis helps move the protagonist towards a more satisfying, if still deeply peculiar, life. All the characters are well-drawn.

I fell into this story with the first line and barely came up for air until I was done.

I’m not sure I’ve ever read a book filled with so much beautiful and tragic truth, or an ending that filled me with so much optimism. Thousands have written gorgeous reviews about the story, the characters, the writing—so I won’t even attempt that here. 

These lines, from the book, are among the most beautiful and meaningful to me: “If you are surrounded by those who call what you are different instead of beautiful. If your mind or body has cried out for peace and acknowledgement and understanding, just know…You are part of an infinite family. The people who have been through terrible things and survived them. If you are reading these words, you WON today.”

This book kept me turning the pages well into the night.

The Rev Jack Brooks moves to a new parish for a fresh start with her teenage daughter but they have barely unpacked when strange things begin to happen.

The book is well-paced with clever use of local superstitions which gives the story a supernatural feel. There is a looming threat to the main protagonist which builds the unease till the explosive end.

Ah, these juvenile narrators: they think they know it all. Lucille Odem has it all figured out. She can fix her broken family and heal her parent’s broken hearts—because of course she can. For me, the pleasure of a great young adult narrator is watching as even the smartest of these smarty pants comes to learn that we all have blind spots and that it’s often the things we can’t see or don’t know that are the most important part of the equation. What a sweet book this is.