Books like How To Talk To A Widower

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. 

I love this book because gay teen Henry keeps getting abducted by aliens. He’s trying to have a normal life as a high school student in Florida, but people think he’s a flake because he keeps going missing when the aliens take him.

The aliens give him a button to push if he wants to save the world from getting destroyed. Henry’s classmates f*ck around with him so much I wanted him to find something to give him hope not to destroy the world. His new boyfriend seems to be helping, but during a visit, Henry is taken by aliens and goes missing for a while, messing up his new romance.

It’s hard enough to be a gay teen, but to be a gay teen who is abducted by aliens on a weekly basis is something that I love about this book.

On the surface, this is a coming-of-age story with a protagonist similar to many others in the genre—bright, witty, snobbish, and pissed off at almost everybody he meets. But what makes this book so good is the narrator’s intelligence and self-awareness, and the complexity of all the characters and their relationships. 

My own upbringing was a far cry from the wealthy, highly-cultured world depicted here—I grew up in a tiny town in southern Iowa, and though there was a college in town I had little access to culture—yet I could completely relate to the gay narrator’s fish-out-of-water feeling and his desire to be understood. I also loved his close relationship with his grandmother, since my grandmother was equally important to me.    

Also super funny while pointing out the absurdity of academia. Written from the perspective of the chair of the English Department, Henry Deveraux grapples with being the underachieving son of the man who is the father of American Literary Theory.

An excerpt of Straight Man titled Dog appeared in the New Yorker many years ago, and it’s possibly the best excerpt I’ve ever read. It taught me so much about writing while keeping me riveted to every sentence, just like the overall book did.

I loved this because it takes something that should be simple – an all-the-family Christmas present of DNA testing kits - and turns it into a grenade rolled across the tinselled table.

I'm fascinated by families who crack on that things are rosy when it's clear to anyone looking on that there's big trouble in paradise. Kate Davies writes that trouble beautifully: the jokes, the awkwardness, the desperate urge to keep a smile on your face when normal didn't so much leave the room as move off-grid.

I loved how funny this book was about something genuinely destabilising.

Allyson’s book is a collection of essays on the intersection of queerness, identity, and pop culture—horror primarily. Which means, yeah, it was practically engineered for me.

I found much to love and much to relate to within these pages. The way she weaves together personal experience, horror tropes, and urban legends is masterful, and I found the descriptions of gatekeeping and how it results in questioning one’s identity/place in things to hit rather personally.

It is all the fault of the corridor… I’ve always been fascinated by the family – what is a family, how does it function?

But where did we get the idea that it should be a tight nuclear unit? In medieval times, family encompassed a swathe of relations and hangers-on who lived together in large unprivate households.

When I stumbled across Lawrence Stone’s controversial, but utterly compelling, analysis of the changes that resulted in the modern nuclear family, I was hooked. Once corridors, which allowed rooms with doors to open off them, were put into buildings, privacy became the norm, and the smaller family began to take shape.  

This is a very short book with a single brilliant insight into the human condition. 

It shows how wrong it is to suppose (as Marx and Engels did) that first there were self-sufficient nuclear families who then produced surpluses to exchange with other nuclear families. 

Mauss used early fieldwork in the South Pacific and Northwest Coast of Canada, to demonstrate that exchange is the very essence of human social life, inseparable from the incest taboo, marriage rules, and a fully realized highly elaborate symbolic universe based upon principles of animism, sympathetic magic and rites of passage. 

I love this book – Hanawalt’s research is intriguing – using manorial court rolls, coroners’ reports, and wills she reveals the lives of ordinary folk and opened the doors for me to peasant homes in the later Middle Ages. I thoroughly enjoyed her description of everyday life from childhood to old age, the household economy, blood ties, wealth, homesteads, and surrogate parents and children. I discovered that family concerns were not so very different then to ours today and was reminded that the past is not a foreign country where they did things differently. It’s both scholarly and readable, a book to dip into or relish from cover to cover, another essential for writing historical fiction about the Middle Ages.

The book is, to my knowledge, the only one that fully covers the evolution of marriage in the West, including historical details and interesting biological and anthropological data; it changes the way we are indoctrinated to think by showing that sex, love, and marriage were for most of the time completely separate things, while we now try as much to force the three items to be always together.

The most surprising part for people who have not been familiar with the history of these topics is how recent and geographically localized it is the expectation that love, sex, and marriage should be together.