63 Books Like Ransom

It always seemed unfair to me that not only do we get just one life, but we only get to live it once. So I fell in love with this novel from the moment I read its premise: Ursula Todd is born and dies and is born again… and again… and again.

I love that she doesn’t remember her previous lives except as vague intuitions that help her avoid making the same mistakes twice–and I also love that avoiding those mistakes often means she makes other (often fatal) mistakes. I found this book funny, moving, and thought-provoking, but what I love most about it is the way its down-to-earth, realistic style allowed me to fully inhabit the impossible conceit at its heart. 

I thought it was great to have Circe herself narrate her love affair with Odysseus.

The first half of the novel interestingly shares her tribulations growing up as a child in a family of gods. I found that this establishes a theme of immortality vs. mortality that the book explores in profound ways. Especially fascinating was Circe’s personal story of her love affair with Odysseus.

I was surprised and delighted that Miller included the resulting child, Telegonus, who is not in Homer but is in ancient myth. Even more surprising to me was Circe falling in love with Telemachus, Odysseus’ son by Penelope (also not in Homer!). This relationship allows the novel to end on a positive note as Circe learns to live like a mortal in her new life with Telemachus.

Although this is not Mary Renault’s first novel set in Bronze Age Greece, it’s a classic.

She retells the story of Theseus in his own words, but not as a simple hero tale. Set long before the Trojan War, much takes place in Minoan Crete where Theseus performs his first heroic act.

Renault depicts the advanced Minoan culture and Mother Goddess religion intriguingly and gives fresh interpretations, from the character of Theseus himself to the Minotaur in the Labyrinth and what follows.

First read while I was a college student (not for a class), this book inspired me to one day create my own mythic retelling.

Kaya Clark is the wild child I longed to be growing up. Although her family story is tragic and well-explored, how she inhabits her world of nature and allows it to inhabit her is stunning. Once again, she is a young woman who is an outcast who manages to rise above her limitations and those placed on her by society. 

Beyond the incredible storytelling and intriguing plot lines, I was mesmerized by the natural world of the North Carolina marshes, being as much a main character as Kaya herself. The intricate details of the lushness and cruelty of the natural world were incredible. In looking back at my favorite novels, one of the commonalities is the writing’s ability to come alive in my head and to take up a permanent space as much as my own lived memories. This novel is one of those.

I read the book originally in college as part of a Jewish Literature course, and I was struck by the love story inside. The title drew me in immediately, and it was one of those beautifully heartbreaking stories with lines that will stick with you for a lifetime.

“Once upon a time, there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.” I will never be over this one.

The ‘girls’ are the Trojan women, voiceless in Homer’s Iliad except, briefly, Andromache, Cassandra, and Hecuba.

Women drive the plot, from Helen, the Spartan queen abducted by the Trojan prince Paris, who is blamed for starting it, to Briseis, the Trojan captive Agamemnon takes from Achilles, but they say little.

Most of the chapters in Silence of the Girls are first-person in Briseis’ voice, with interspersed third-person chapters focusing on Achilles and Patroclus. We see the war from a broad, realistic perspective, but the tragedy in the center is of the women—as the Greek playwright Euripides recognizes in his play ‘The Trojan Women’ among others.

Pat Barker gives us the full, moving story in this novel and its sequels, The Women of Troy and The Voyage Home.

Mothering Sunday takes place on a single day in March 1924, a day off for all the servants, including Jane Fairchild, although as a foundling she has no mother to go home to. The novella revolves around the affair Jane has with soon-to-be-married Paul Sheringham, the only remaining son of the neighbouring family, and heir to their estate. The writing is imbued with a sense of loss, of time warping and wavering, of what-would-have-beens, and conveys the difficulties faced by those who had to carry on in the wake of the Great War. 

Graves develops the characters and plot in this book fictionally, but he believes Homer’s Odyssey was written by a character in the epic, Nausicaa, princess of Sicily, as he argues in his historical note.

It’s a lively and adventurous story, and Graves’ conviction that a woman authored this work attributed to Homer adds to its charm. Later mythic retellings are based on the stories they spring from, but Graves sheds new light on the Odyssey itself through Nausicaa’s point of view.

His nonfiction works, The Greek Myths and The White Goddess, are also brilliant, original approaches to mythology and highly recommended.

I saw Alice Oswald recite this entire collection after accidentally getting locked into the Carlos Museum at Emory University (a story for another day). To say that I was moved is an understatement.

This book-length poem memorializes the two hundred soldiers mentioned in Homer’s Iliad. Its unflinching portraits of the war’s sacrificed men are in Oswald’s singularly sharp, melodic style. 

‘Wrath’ is the first word, beginning European literature not with the whimper of infancy but with a bang. The Iliad is ferociously intense, the action remarkably compressed in time and place, despite the poem’s great length (most of it takes place on the plain of Troy over two or three days). It is the quintessence of tragedy, declaring that the quest for glory, the hero’s duty, is inseparably bound up with humiliation and death. But it is a high-spirited tragedy, immensely energetic, with a lust for the ordinary appetites of life. Life is so good: that is what makes the warriors’ deaths so terrible. The gods look on, both fascinated and detached, and through their eyes we see man as both small and great. I recommend Martin Hammond’s prose translation.