Books like Starting Out in the Evening

I have always loved the image of Jo March hiding up in the attic (she calls it a “garret” because it’s more romantic) of her family’s New England house, munching on russet apples and writing furiously away with her pet rat, Scrabble, as her muse, or curling up with Jane Eyre—it’s the only place she can be alone.

She’s one of the classic aspiring young writers of literature—a totally unconventional, headstrong girl with big ambitions who has provided inspiration for her real-life counterparts for generations, me included.

The book is genius and totally bonkers in the best way.

When a would-be hermit, a 60something playwright named Charles Arrowby, retreats to a house by the sea to write his memoirs in solitude, he’s besieged by uninvited visitors and interpersonal trouble, much of it of his own making.

The titular sea is ever-present throughout, almost alive in all its changing moods, and there is a lot of food and drink amid the constant conversations. What follows is a masterpiece of self-delusion and nostalgia, obsession and regret, a very British kind of comic madness that resolves into philosophical calm. 

How could I not love this book? It’s set in the lovely (really!) city of Pittsburgh, and it’s about a lost weekend of literary hijinks and stoned debauchery.

The protagonist, Grady Tripp, is a young male writer making something of an ass of himself, but Chabon makes him so sympathetic, I can’t help rooting for him even as he digs himself in even deeper.

The dialogue crackles, the supporting characters are vivid and colorful, and the plot sweeps the reader up into a whirlwind of incredibly fun trouble.

I love all Dawn Powell’s novels, but this 1936 satire of the New York literary scene might be my favorite.

Powell brilliantly captures the metropolitan grit and glamour of New York City in the 1930s, the backstabbing literary gossip, hard-drinking parties and seedy bars, and all the publishing world’s deep loyalties and betrayals. The city itself is a character, and all the people in the book feel both true to life and larger than life.

The book follows the aspiring writer Dennis Orphen, who is guilty of stealing the details of his dear friend’s life in his novel—and what ensues is hilarious, sparkling, and surprisingly moving.

Set in the past and based on real people, this is a gripping story about an unofficial relationship that crosses class divides.

The closeness between poet Elizabeth Barret and her maid, known by her surname, Wilson, is never properly acknowledged as a friendship. But that’s what it is, as Wilson gradually gets to know everything about her mistress, particularly her forbidden love for fellow poet Robert Browning, and Barret comes to increasingly rely on the dependable Wilson.

This book is a fabulous and creative imagining of these real lives, and of a deep friendship that is horribly betrayed when things go wrong.

In the current media environment, it is hard for us to do the one essential thing that novel readers must do: suspend disbelief—to read something that we know is not true, yet accept it as if it were true. It is a cynical time. We have learned to mistrust what we read.

So what is a novelist to do? Well, one way to win over skeptical readers is by a simple trick, one that I love (as both reader and writer): the novelist appears in his own novel. My novel uses a similar device, beginning with a novelist-narrator who bears a striking resemblance to me. These five novels all use a similar strategy.

The first book, American Pastoral, is one of my favorites. Philip Roth frequently borrowed from his own life in his novels, but to me, this is his most effective blend of fact and fiction. The novel lifts… show more.

At first glance, this book of short stories is about Denver gentrification, but the volume is much more – a series of studies of how Native and Mexican women remember and revisit the “lost territory” of northern New Mexico and southern Colorado when they head to the Rocky Mountain metropolis.

I love that rather than look back East or out West when seeking home, the women of Fajardo-Anstine’s work look northward and southward, to the past and to the future. I was not at all surprised to learn that Fajardo-Anstine consulted with Prof. Vanessa Fonseca-Chávez for her work. Fonseca-Chávez’s Following the Manito Trail oral history project let me keep listening for similar voices.

This is one of those books I love because you literally cannot put it down until you have reached the final page, and when you do, you are left with a lingering sense of sadness that the book is over.

I love it as a reader, and I admire it as a writer, because it shows how to handle an intense plot with a firm hand, page after page, without losing momentum and without giving the reader a moment to breathe—something I have also tried to achieve in my own books.

In addition, the plausibility of the plot, the dark places where the characters move, the politicians, and those other figures who are always kept hidden from us and who carry out the crimes of power, create an almost disturbingly realistic picture that we should not ignore, because it reveals the true face of power.

I love a tense, character-driven thriller, and this one was set in a remote town I’ve visited. 

I love that the book is set in 1963, a decade that had particular significance for Australian women, their roles, and the expectations placed upon them.

It’s not fast-moving, but the setting is an almost palpable character in its own right. I found it dark, rife with corruption, violence, oppressive heat, and both the best and the worst of what Australia has to offer.

In some ways, this is an even more daunting novel than Musil’s masterpiece. Initially, it gives the impression of meandering over some 800 pages, with the first hundred pages dealing with individuals who do not reappear until towards the end. It is less a novel with a narrative plotline and more a novel in which the protagonists are themselves the plot.

These individuals do much more than represent Austria and Vienna in the 1920s. Indeed, it could be seen almost as a sequel to Musil’s Man Without Qualities, which deals with the same social milieu. It is always amusingly chaotic yet equally cynical as it shows us a sector of Middle European society that was bred to run an empire when, abruptly, there is no longer an empire left to run. 

It is a vast panorama, presenting a society of rather dull-witted people educated well beyond their natural intelligence.… show more.