100 Books Like The Friend Who Got Away

Before reaching middle school, I pretty much believed that my friends—who they were and how many I had—determined my value. But my circle could be fickle; girls were ostracized for minor infractions (you bought the same coat as me!) I lived with daily fear of being dropped.

So Cat’s Eye captivated me with its lack of sentimentality in depicting (some) girls’ friendships. Elaine, a middle-aged artist, returns alone to Toronto, the city where she grew up,  for a retrospective of her work. The trip gives Elaine space to reflect on her life in that city, and Cordelia, her childhood “friend”, is central to her memories.

Cordelia tormented and humiliated Elaine, even putting her life in danger, yet Elaine remained loyal to her for years. It felt very real to me that this toxic relationship would continue to preoccupy Elaine into her functional adulthood. Girlhood friendships are often fraught, and Atwood… show more.

Lorrie Moore is another one of my favorite writers and someone I’ve been lucky enough to write about on multiple occasions. Her first novel, Anagrams, is smart, fun, and resolutely—even defiantly—weird. Her second novel, Who Will Run the Frog Hospital? is all those things and more.

Berie, the narrator, is on a bad vacation in Paris, where her marriage is teetering on the brink of collapse. Instead of dealing with her obnoxious husband, she thinks back to the summer she turned fifteen and the profound friendship she forged with a girl she worked with at a Disney-knockoff theme park in upstate New York.

Like Home Land, this novel has its cultists, and I’m happy to count myself among them. Moore, like Lipsyte, is a stylist as unmistakable as she is unprecedented, someone whose sentences I would recognize anywhere. This slim coming-of-age novel bears all her hallmarks—comic timing, gimlet… show more.

I’m a little obsessed with the sheer ferocity with which Elisa Albert writes the world, and when I this short, sharp novel the phrase that stuck in my head was, “This is all teeth.” And boy, do I mean that in a good way.

Ari Walker is still trying to get her footing after the birth of her baby when Mina, a former cult musician, moves to town and the two bond hard. I still think about Albert’s description of Mina, her round cheeks and her messy hair and the jarring realization that this woman is not affecting carelessness with standard beauty norms, but truly does not give a good goddamn. It’s about those people who are both alien and intimate and who make you more yourself. 

What’s more fraught and intimate than friends? Sisters.   

Munro’s title story is about a relationship of extremes: sisters Char and Et can laugh over the darkest shit imaginable, and yet they also have certain psychic rooms they’ll never let the other into. Is this love or hostility? More happens in here than I can say, except that Char is the beautiful sister and Et the sharp-tongued, practical one, and an old flame returns and wreaks havoc.

It’s Munro, so there is sex, death, and betrayal, but delivered so obliquely you aren’t always sure what the characters deliberately did. Maybe that’s why this story enraptures me: it’s about the things you’ll never get to know, and I always think I'll figure it out this time.

This book shows how layered and difficult grief can be, in the most uncomfortable and sometimes taboo ways. While flipping from page to page, you feel like you’re having a talk with your big sister, hearing her uncover things that no one else would be honest enough with you about.

Through her character Wren, this author is honest about how impossible it feels to grieve while also trying to live, as the narrator uncovers parts of her deceased friend she didn’t even know about. 

Tell the Wolves I’m Home is literary and lyrical and it broke my heart into a thousand pieces while simultaneously piecing it back together again.

When June loses her beloved Uncle Finn at the height of the AIDs epidemic, she also loses the person who understands her the most. Then she forms a friendship with the partner he left behind, Toby, and together they help each other through the loneliness they both feel without him.

I liked that this book isn’t afraid to explore complicated relationships – especially between siblings. It also shines a light on a time when ignorance caused so much pain, through characters who are confused, flawed, and deeply human. The writing is beautiful.  

I love reading about young characters facing hard choices.

For a senior in high school, there may be no harder choice than staying in a town with no future to be with a dying grandfather, or leaving home with a best friend in the pursuit of a better life.

I love how Jeff Zentner's characters grow on the page, struggling between their family obligations, friends' influence, and desire to succeed while finding their own identity. 

Ohh yeah, and there is some serendipitous science going on also!

One of the most profound attempts to capture grief in prose is due to the British experimental novelist B. S. Johnson. Published in 1969, The Unfortunates is a book in a box: twenty-seven booklets to be read in any order, except for “First” and “Last.” Its narrator is a journalist returning to a city he last knew seven years ago, visiting an old friend, Tony, who later died of metastatic cancer. The visit triggers memories that arrive in random order, scattered through the day’s events as chance dictates. Grief has no narrative order, the book in a box seems to warn; and any closure is temporary. Grief can be opened and reshuffled again and again. 

“In the far north, in a small snug house, four children lived with their beloved grandmother,” begins this gentle tale. I’ve never made it through this book without crying. I bet you’ll cry, too.

Translated from Danish, Glenn hits the chord of loss with universal truths shared by a visit from Death himself. He’s a respectful visitor who leaves his scythe outside to not scare the children when he comes for their grandmother.

Death has a “heart as red as a beautiful sunset and beats with the great love of life.” He tells them of opposites, of dark and light, of sorrow and delight, of grief and joy. “What would life be worth if there was no death?” 

I am always on the verge of returning home. Sometimes, it’s the food; other times, it’s the memory. I am not from New Orleans, but this book is phenomenal in its guidance of a city and what it means to name any place home.

From its onset, this collection moves through music and mythology as a means for sorting through devastation while placing life a step ahead of it.

I’d recommend this book to any seasoned (or first) reader of poetry on the search for beauty around the corner and a reminder of how close we are to it.