Books like Some Hope — picked by fans

What I love about this book is what it reveals about a writer’s process.

Ellroy’s theme, in books like The Black Dahlia and LA Confidential, is the dark, violent, seamy underside of post war LA, particularly as it relates to prostitution and the exploitation and abuse of women. Before I read his memoir, I had no idea about the event in his past that foreshadows his subject matter, the grisly, unsolved murder of his mother, and his efforts to solve that crime, or at least understand it.

Perhaps it is too obvious to draw a direct line from his experience to his writing, but frankly, his memoir changed my perspective on his other books. 

This is, of course, considered to be one of the great books, but I have noticed that not a lot of people I know have actually read it.

I was apprehensive that it might be a bit slow, but I was surprised, in fact, thrilled to find it a great read, an amazing journey through the internal life of both the narrator (recalling events from his childhood) and of Swann and Odette.

The descriptions of both place and of emotion are exceptional, and Proust’s rendering of the characters’ psychological and emotional states, how we perceive their meaning, and how it affects their lives is phenomenal.

The book feels fresh, inventive, and modern, and although it is the first volume of seven, it easily stands alone. 

Anthony Lloyd has spent his time as a war correspondent in horrific war zones like Bosnia Herzegovina and Chechnya and seen some of the worst conditions that modern war and ethnic hatreds have to offer.

Rather than just reporting on the experience, he gives you a sense of what it feels like to be in those situations, and then he goes further. While it has become common to talk about adrenaline junkies, Lloyd ups the ante by describing the heroin addiction he reverts to whenever he returns to England between assignments, and the perspective this brings to the narrative takes it to an entirely deeper level.

This book engaged me at an emotional and psychological level in a version of life that I could otherwise never even imagine. For me, that is exceptional writing. 

For me, what drives this book is perspective, the crazy, intense story of a deeply dysfunctional family as seen through the eyes of a child, and the title refers to a bar her father frequents, often accompanied, inappropriately, by his young daughter.

From the quality of the writing to the vividness of the characters and the nutty outrageousness of the family, this is simply one of the best memoirs I have read. Definitely a book I will read a second time, when I get a chance. 

A fictionalized version of the author's harrowing autobiography, this series of short, consecutive novels is a compelling and intensely moving story of trauma and recovery. We are shown how childhood sexual abuse and emotional neglect is a murder of the child's soul, how it can lead to addiction and self-loathing, and how recovery becomes a matter of choosing life over death.

The author gives us relentless honesty, focused prose, acute insight, and sharp, wickedly incisive wit. Slowly, steadily, Melrose heals and grows, understanding more and feeling more. I couldn't turn the pages fast enough. In some of the most beautiful writing I've ever read, St. Aubyn describes the essence of healing from trauma: the experience of deeply felt, overwhelming compassion and empathy.

Of this set of books, the first two are my faves. Who needs horror when it’s right here in St. Aubyn’s horrific childhood with his creepy father?

It becomes perfectly understandable why the young Edward dove into a life of utter self-destruction. When he becomes a drug addict, his sheer self-obliteration reaches epic proportions. I have to admit, I was awed. It’s not so much the stories of his sick father and oblivious mother or his gleeful romp through degradation that compelled me to keep reading. It’s the writing. These are the best descriptions of drug use that I’ve ever come across.

The writing reminded me of my favorite movie, Trainspotting, which managed to visually convey the effects of heroin addiction in a similar way. 

I can not praise Edward St Aubyn highly enough. He is one of my favourite authors; I love his writing because it is heart-stoppingly true and affecting.

He portrays dysfunctional family dynamics with blistering accuracy, and I felt less alone reading this because I have been haunted by my own ancestral patterns repeating themselves through generations. I not only find St Aubyn laugh-out-loud funny, but he is also a brilliant observer of social mores.

Somehow, this book manages to be anti-spiritual while being one of the most spiritually aware books I have read. I love that St Aubyn does not try to make himself likable as a writer. There’s a ruthless fearlessness to his truth that I admire, which adds to his humanity.  

This is another book I came to via teaching; looking for new ecofictions, I put out a call on twitter and this title kept being mentioned by people I trust. When I read it, I was blown away by Hunter’s slim, powerful novel.

With the South of England underwater, Britons are forced to flee north to displacement camps, suddenly finding themselves fighting in supermarkets for supplies and walking the roads with their children.

I first read it for its depiction of eco-catastrophe and refugee crisis and its fascinating echoes of the fuel and food shortages of the pandemic. But as I reread it each year, I more insistently see it as a book depicting new motherhood as a crashing, overwhelming flood from which one emerges perhaps a year later, a haunted, dazed survivor.

David Thomson can outmatch any film critic I know for sheer pungent accuracy, as well as passion. He knows every director, every actor, every movie, and he always has something valuable—and often something essential—to say about each one. Thomson’s New Biographical Dictionary of Film, now in its sixth edition, is a continuous delight, a perfect book for browsing. A required purchase for every film buff.

I defy any historical fiction reader or detective fiction reader not to love this book as much as I did. It is a classic of the genre: a book that has everything. From the class system to the family superstition, the role of the servants, the treatment of the convicts, and the spooky location, it cannot be faulted. 

I was in the fortunate position of having read the book before I saw any of the films, for I have not seen one that accurately captures the atmosphere. Conan Doyle dabbled with the dark side of superstition in his life, and that interest comes across strongly.