Books like Misery

This book is a parenting manual.

The boy is every boy. He asks if they're still the good guys. The man says yes, carrying the fire. This transaction between a father and a son, stripped of everything else: carry what you're given, keep walking toward the promise, because it's who you are.

Everything soft has been burned off this book, and what's left is a father deciding, hour by hour, what he's handing over.

Everybody talks about the shock value of this series, but they forget that these books have the greatest and most realistic character developments of all time.

Sansa, Daenerys, and Jon Snow are the most obvious ones, but I chose Jaime because I can relate to him the most. Sometimes everything goes your way, and you feel invincible. But remembering the fall of Jaime keeps my feet on the ground.

I had similar experiences several times when I acted like a jerk because of my job titles before reading his story. Now I never get ahead of myself. 

I find Tom Ripley such a wonderful character—a con man who commits crimes under the guise of someone else, a male protagonist written by a lesbian.

I love the levels of deception the reader is pulled in, so is on the side of the criminal throughout, hoping for him not to get caught in his awful, amoral behaviour.

It is a masterful use of the narrative voice in crime fiction at its best.

Everything Sarah Waters writes is great, but this one is my favorite.

Waters is highly literary—her command of language and vocabulary is impressive—yet she is not afraid to roll around in the mud as her characters engage in petty deception, then...larger crimes.

Set in the early 1920's, the story is as alive and real and immediate as if it were happening right now. I love the way Waters includes plenty of historical details, from language to furniture and architecture, but she never gets lost in it—her characters are real and nuanced and very human. They are driven by need, greed, lust, anger—the real emotions that often trigger violent crimes.

What intrigues me about this book is the way the author, Margaret Atwood, took the (Genesis 30) story of Jacob, who impregnated his wife's handmaiden to produce the children which his wife could not conceive.

She then puts herself in the place of that handmaiden and asks some serious questions. Was that handmaid even given a choice in the matter? What would have happened to her if she had refused? She then rolls the same idea forward 4,000 years to a pseudo religious society in which the sole purpose of handmaidens is to use their bodies to conceive and gestate the next generation for those whom they serve.

This book combines two of my favorite genres—horror and science fiction.

It was written in the early 1950s when science ruled, and the Atomic bomb threatened. The end of the world was a favorite science fiction topic back then, but Matheson (who wrote in both horror and sci-fi genres) did the unthinkable by combining classic vampire tropes with an apocalyptic thriller. 

The fun for me is that there is not just one vampire, but a whole world of them! And the vampire hunter (always part of a team in most horror stories) is all alone in his fight for survival. The vamps are still nasty critters—they die but can reanimate by drinking human blood.

It’s a classic vampire fight throughout, until there is a surprise ending! It’s a Vampire-zombie-plague. How can you resist?

What does it mean to be human, and what happens to us when we don’t receive unconditional love?

The two main characters in this Gothic novel, a human and a "monster," are presented in such a way that I questioned which main character was more human. There’s a warning of what can happen when we deny the basic human need for unconditional love.

Shelly’s use of a frame story pulled me in from the first page.

About halfway into Red Dragon, you meet Francis Dolarhyde, and from then on, the book is all his. Forget the FBI who are looking for him, the only person you care about is Dolarhyde, the serial killer who’s been brutally murdering entire families.

As far as I’m concerned, he’s the hero. Hannibal Lecter isn’t Thomas Harris’ best villain. It’s Dolarhyde. He’s everything Lecter isn’t. He’s awkward, shy, hates his body, hates himself and spends all his time stewing on his inadequacies. If I’ve got to pick between the Virgin Dolarhyde and the Chad Lecter, it’s Dolarhyde every time.

Deep down, he just wants to be loved, but the way he goes about it is almost comically misguided. Dolardhyde is on an impossible, bloody mission to fix himself, and no matter how many bodies he drops trying to do it, I’m always rooting for him to make it out the… show more.

In interviews, Paul Howarth has discussed the ways in which colonial Australia was essentially a second Wild West, albeit one scarcely explored in fiction. Only Killers and Thieves leans into that understanding and in doing so creates a vivid, blood-soaked, Biblical saga about revenge, redemption, and the lies upon which nations are built, full of unforgettable characters and passages of writing that will make your breath catch. That it is followed by an even better sequel is the icing on a magnificent cake.

I remember summers growing up when we were out of the house seeking freedom from parents as we streamed toward our teenage years, so I can identify with this story’s start. We’d follow deer trails through brush and trees to spots up in the hills we’d claimed as our own. This book begins with a prologue made vivid with three children and Tana French’s gorgeous prose.

The children go up and over a rock wall and into “A summer full-throated and extravagant in a hot pure silk skin blue…your tongue tasting of chewed blades of long grass, your own clean sweat…” “…long slow twilight and mothers silhouetted in doorways…” and the haunted last sentence, “These children will not be coming of age, this or any other summer.”