100 Books Like The Loser

Growing up in Philadelphia, with school and family visits to landmarks like Independence Hall and Betsy Ross’s house, I’ve long been interested in American history. That led me, eventually, to graduate school and my profession as a historian. At the same time, I have greatly enjoyed reading American novelists, such as Nathaniel Hawthorne, Willa Cather, and James Baldwin, as well as the works of thinkers like Ralph Waldo Emerson and W.E.B. DuBois. The sweet spot combining those two interests has been American intellectual history.

Philosophical novels challenge rather than appease. They subvert. They obscure. As a former acquisitions editor at major publishing houses, I am confounded by the scarcity of chances taken on books that don’t fit the status quo or, are "difficult." I am most interested in how books—even when they meander and cavort—lead to surprising and unsettling revelations. Or how they don’t lead to revelations at all but keep the reader guessing as to when some semblance of grace will be achieved. I don’t wish to sound pessimistic; if anything, I wish to be realistic. Philosophical novels are reflections of life, which is often confusing, contradictory, and, yes, difficult. With a touch of grace for good measure.

I’ve always loved challenging books. They work your brain and confront your ideas. They’re written in a foreign tongue that somehow or other we understand. In my 2019 PhD, I examined how W. G. Sebald used nostalgia and the uncanny in his four great prose fictions. My own The Hands of Pianists is greatly influenced by Sebaldian techniques. It received a rave review from arguably Australia’s best literary critic and was among five novels shortlisted for the 2022 Australian Prime Minister’s Literary Awards. Five of my short stories have been longlisted and shortlisted in recent UK competitions. Last Meal won the UK’s 2020 Fiction Factory prize.

Philosophical novels challenge rather than appease. They subvert. They obscure. As a former acquisitions editor at major publishing houses, I am confounded by the scarcity of chances taken on books that don’t fit the status quo or, are "difficult." I am most interested in how books—even when they meander and cavort—lead to surprising and unsettling revelations. Or how they don’t lead to revelations at all but keep the reader guessing as to when some semblance of grace will be achieved. I don’t wish to sound pessimistic; if anything, I wish to be realistic. Philosophical novels are reflections of life, which is often confusing, contradictory, and, yes, difficult. With a touch of grace for good measure.

I learned to read music at about the same time I learned to read words. I grew up taking piano lessons, studying almost entirely classical pieces that came weighted with history: everything I ever played had been played better by someone else. I still enjoyed my attempts, but realized that the relationship I had with those notes was not the one I wanted to have with words, which I felt drawn to assemble into my own arrangements, my own stories. So, as a weirdo who’s been thinking about interpretation and creation since childhood, I love books that delve into the challenges and emotional complexities of making music.

Philosophical novels challenge rather than appease. They subvert. They obscure. As a former acquisitions editor at major publishing houses, I am confounded by the scarcity of chances taken on books that don’t fit the status quo or, are "difficult." I am most interested in how books—even when they meander and cavort—lead to surprising and unsettling revelations. Or how they don’t lead to revelations at all but keep the reader guessing as to when some semblance of grace will be achieved. I don’t wish to sound pessimistic; if anything, I wish to be realistic. Philosophical novels are reflections of life, which is often confusing, contradictory, and, yes, difficult. With a touch of grace for good measure.

I’ve always loved challenging books. They work your brain and confront your ideas. They’re written in a foreign tongue that somehow or other we understand. In my 2019 PhD, I examined how W. G. Sebald used nostalgia and the uncanny in his four great prose fictions. My own The Hands of Pianists is greatly influenced by Sebaldian techniques. It received a rave review from arguably Australia’s best literary critic and was among five novels shortlisted for the 2022 Australian Prime Minister’s Literary Awards. Five of my short stories have been longlisted and shortlisted in recent UK competitions. Last Meal won the UK’s 2020 Fiction Factory prize.

I’m an English professor, a poet, a lover of reading, and a happy husband and father. How did all this happen; what historical processes made my good fortunes possible? I get answers to these questions from great fiction and great nonfiction. It’s hard to find two more sensitive and beautifully written novels about marriage’s personal and social dimensions than Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway and E. M. Forster’s Howards End. Their psychological insights are complemented by two marriage historians and one sociologist with broad knowledge about love’s evolution over the centuries. I’ve read these books multiple times and shared them with many students (and friends)! They never get old.

I grew up in a family of church singers. As a young man, I studied poetry and piano, literature and guitar, listening to Hank Williams and reading William Faulkner while dreaming of becoming a Nashville songwriter. Eventually, I performed as a singer-songwriter myself on three continents, so it’s entirely honest to say that music, language, and stories have always been the fabric of my life. These novels represent everything I love about music and how it connects us—to people, to worlds beyond—and I hope you find them just as meaningful (and occasionally heartwrenching) as I have.

I learned to read music at about the same time I learned to read words. I grew up taking piano lessons, studying almost entirely classical pieces that came weighted with history: everything I ever played had been played better by someone else. I still enjoyed my attempts, but realized that the relationship I had with those notes was not the one I wanted to have with words, which I felt drawn to assemble into my own arrangements, my own stories. So, as a weirdo who’s been thinking about interpretation and creation since childhood, I love books that delve into the challenges and emotional complexities of making music.