100 Books Like The Life And Strange Surprizing Adventures Of Robinson Crusoe, Of York, Mariner

Like Anderson, Gertrude Stein had a sense of humor about gay Paree. Who else would write someone else’s autobiography?

I love her tone of detached amusement when describing the artistic titans of the Lost Generation. If you don’t get it, try the recipe for Alice B. Toklas brownies. 

I like this because it reveals the dichotomy between what people say and what they do. People think words tell you about a person. What if everything they say is lies? Sally Rooney does that thing I love–she gives you clues as to why people do the things you don’t understand.

She writes imperfect heroes and heroines. You don’t like them, but then you understand them and root for them. A damaged girl who lives in pretense can’t manage life when she no longer has to pretend anymore. So she reverts to self damage rather than expose the chance of total destruction because if she choses what heals she may get destroyed when the expectation of safety gets shattered.

Why give something a chance when life says it never works out? Doing what she’s always done may hurt her, but at least she’s assured of the outcome. The… show more.

Reading Kenzaburo Oë is like falling into a dreamscape. I love this book because it weaves the personal and the fictional in ways that make it impossible to distinguish them.

Is not all of life a melding of dream, reality, and the stuff we make up? Much of Oë’s writing is influenced by his son, Hikari, who was born with cognitive disabilities. This makes the story of the young man in A Personal Matter, who is struggling with the stress of his sick newborn, a fiction heavily informed by personal history.

To take one’s own story and use it to bring to life another one is the height of art-making. It felt like a healing to read.

I set out very determined to despise this first book of Knausgard’s series. Knausgard’s life is no more fascinating than anyone’s. This is not necessarily his life but some reasonable facsimile that dips in and out of reverie, philosophy, and the hardcore reality of cleaning up after an alcoholic parent dies. Hoarding, self-loathing, and Nordic landscape are all features. I mean, what is NOT to love about that?

My lust for this book is not so much what it is about, though,  as how it does this thing of drawing me along in its unadorned vocabulary to wholesale belief in everything that is put down. It is a supreme hoax that I am grateful to have encountered. 

As a writer, I am always pondering the question of how our lives inform our work. As one of my fellow writers, Melissa Ostrom, put it, our experience is the rich compost from which we form our fictional narratives. To use a Freudian dream analogy, I like to think that our lives are the “day residue” of the work—elements from daily life show up in different contexts or transformed in some other way. The twentieth-first century has witnessed an explosion of so-called auto-fiction, fiction that more consciously underscores this process of transforming life into art—think of the work of Ben Lerner, Rachel Cusk, and Karl Ove Knausgard. This recently-released anthology, edited by Caitlin Forst, features work by established writers as well as new voices that interrogates the relationship between writer and text, between art and life.

This novel brings together the past and present experiences of Asian Canadians in a story that’s bursting with light and energy. Much of the book depicts the discrimination faced by Chinese immigrants in Newfoundland in the early 20th century, and I loved how humour was interspersed between moments that stirred feelings of intense anger and sadness.

Throw in a cheeky, time-travelling spirit named Mo and the privileged millennial who learns about the hardship that’s granted him the life he leads, and we’ve got a fresh take on a tragic history from an exciting new literary voice.

I love I Love Dick! This is a hilarious, shocking, keenly intelligent interrogative adventure into the art world and ideas about stalking a muse and being female. The book was published in 1997 but I didn’t discover it until a decade later, so I was late to the game. In her forward, Eileen Myles describes Chris Kraus as “marching boldly into self-abasement and self-advertisement,” which is a perfect way of putting it. Shredding the veil between reality and fiction, in her relentless pursuit of Dick (a real person), Chris Kraus embraces the world, no holds barred. If you’re curious about being female, being an artist, being a failure (whatever that means), chasing your desires, and fighting your way out of limitations both within and without, this riveting, lacerating, revealing, surprising book is for you.

After eight successful books, Marie Chaix was abruptly dropped by her publisher. An editor-in-chief of another publisher picked her up, helped her dust herself down, became her writing support, friend and best reader, and published her next book. Three months later, he went to bed and never woke up. Shattered, Chaix decided that she couldn’t—wouldn’t—just didn’t write, not for thirteen years. In finally breaking her silence, Chaix draws a strange, delicate self-portrait of a writer paradoxically both stubborn and profoundly unconfident. I’m not Chaix, and I don’t always like autofiction, but as she weaves in and around the causes and consequences of her decision, her story seems to be about all writers.

I have never read a book about motherhood or writing like this one. As I read Debre’s autofictional account of losing custody of her child after leaving her marriage, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was reading something truly original.

Women are not supposed to leave their families to pursue their artistic ambitions, but Debre’s queer character does just that. This is a really slim, sometimes shocking book. I will admire and continue thinking about this book forever.

Anna Kavan’s Asylum Piece presents exciting stylistic possibilities for the world of “personal fiction.” The book defies easy genre categorization, but one might describe it as an experimental, thematically connected collection of autofiction. Drawing on her own experiences in a Swiss sanitarium (from which she was dispatched in 1938), Kavan excavates her psychological traumas and filters them through sequences of vignettes and short stories, conveying states of extreme emotional distress through a restrained, intensely lucid form. An unblinking study of alienation, mental disarray, and feelings of helplessness under bureaucratic control, Asylum Piece takes up a lot of space in my mind.