Books like Romantic Outlaws

First, because it’s incredibly funny. Geoff Dyer set out—he says—to write a sober, serious study of D. H. Lawrence, but life, travel arrangements, random people and his own inertia kept getting in the way. The story of his odyssey doesn’t just evoke all the things about writing that we’ve always suspected (that it’s hard; that it’s easy; that we often wonder why on earth we do it; that we never question that we want to do it). It also, by stealth, evokes and explains an amazing amount about Lawrence, and why he’s a writer that so many people love—or hate—so passionately. 

We often feel alone when we experience change and transitions, but Saunders’s book reminds me that we’re all on the journey of life together.

President Lincoln can’t let go of his young son, Willie, when the boy dies of typhoid fever. Willie, too, is holding on: lingering in the after-death world, he’s convinced his parents are going to come get him. He’s surrounded by people who are also in bardo (the state between death and rebirth), trapped in denial and attachment. When they accept the reality of their situation, the characters are liberated from their suffering.

This book has deepened my understanding of how—both individually and collectively—we struggle against loss, but it’s possible to let go and move forward. 

Miep Gies was one of the people who hid Anne Frank, her family, and four friends in the Secret Annex in Amsterdam in 1942.

At great risk, four of Otto Frank’s employees secured food stamps from the underground and took care of the hiders for an astonishing two years and one month before they were betrayed. Gies’s book gives a real sense of what it was like to live under enemy occupation when it was impossible to trust anyone.

“We were no longer keeping silent. We had lost the habit of speech. Do you understand the difference?” she once said. She didn’t consider herself heroic for helping the Franks. “It was simple. You were asked. You said yes.”

Just as I turned to Trevor Noah’s memoir for answers about apartheid while in South Africa, I devoured this book while in China to more deeply understand how the country was shaped by Communism.

The author’s personal history is frightening and raw—at times hard to read—but it is important to understand a few layers deeper than what the news can offer or, in my case, what tourists get served on visits to China. It’s a wrenching story that has stayed with me for years. 

How does one transform from a rural, home-schooled environment in Utah to earning a PhD at the University of Cambridge? Tara’s immersive writing style takes us with her as she strives to learn about life and family and her place within it.

Through her tender eyes of innocence, her innate sense of integrity, and the slow trusting of her intuition, the veils of deception slowly disappear, and Tara is forced to make choices none of us should ever have to make. Sometimes self-preservation is the precursor to transformation and unconditional love.

I loved this book because it was as much about the author's inner journey as it was the outer one. I loved both aspects of this book.

I love books that give you almost a window into the soul of the writer. Robyn shares her thoughts and experience so well as she makes her way solo 2,000 miles in the Australian Outback. I loved her bravery. This was an epic trip. As one of the first adventure books I had read, it got me hooked. This was a book that made an impact. 

This book taught me what “nonfiction” is.

Bechdel uses her narrator as a vehicle for thinking (in this case, for thinking through a narrator’s complex relationship with her mother), using a constellation of sources from Donald Winnicott to Virginia Woolf to The Sound of Music. She perfects the illusion/truth central to this genre: that we’re witnessing the writer’s process of discovery in real time.

When I’m inside the book, I feel as though I’m inside Bechdel’s brain. I know this feeling is a testament to her craft, but I still couldn’t help thinking, when I finished the book, that Bechdel was my friend. I wanted to call her up to continue our conversation about our parents—even though we’ve never met. 

By the time I reached Native Guard’s central crown of sonnets, Trethewey already had me with her blues poem and palindrome.

I love the formal-mindedness of this collection—also its authority and fearlessness. I admire the way Trethewey unites personal history (the speaker’s memories of childhood; her experience as a woman of color; her mother’s tragic death) and collective history (the unremembered Native Guard; systemic racism; the legacies of slavery and the Civil War).

Her poems help us ask the big questions together: what memories are held or erased by a community of people? How might collective grief inform private grief and vice versa? What happens if our stories are not remembered, and what work can writing do to help us not forget? And also: “Incident” is one of the best pantoums out there.

I’m often asked by Americans who aren’t familiar with Wollstonecraft (or confuse mother and daughter), which of her books to read first. Vindication of the Rights of Woman is her most famous, but I always answer that if you only read one, this book is it. It’s her most modern and personal work, and the last thing she wrote before dying of puerperal fever at age 38, after giving birth to the future Mary Shelley. It’s part travelogue, love letter, philosophical treatise, cultural history, and (I would argue) suicide note, bookended by her two attempts after a shattering affair with American speculator Gilbert Imlay. It’s short and accessible, beautifully written, and a glimpse into a magnificent mind.

This book became a kind of hymnal for me during the writing of Love and Fury. It was Virginia Woolf who in 1929 resurrected Mary Wollstonecraft’s reputation and legacy, buried for a century because a tell-all memoir written by her widower, William Godwin, scandalized the world. It seemed natural to turn to Woolf, who found inspiration in Wollstonecraft’s “experiments in living”. I read a section of the diary every day before I started to write. Woolf’s profound creative visions, her anguish, and passions, her voice, helped me locate Wollstonecraft and my own voice in hers.