100 Books Like The Patrick Melrose Novels

Take a first-class literary talent who’s a master of language with a soul as dark as Dostoyevsky’s and lock him in a room with the New York Giants on the television and a well-stocked bar—that’s one way of describing this monster book about deep, obsessive fandom.

It’s not just a great sports book—it’s great, period, if disturbing as hell. Like all monster talents, Exley is ultimately almost pitied for what the gods and his Giants put him through.

This book resonated with me because it’s the story of a journey. A journey of personal discovery and resilience.

I know what it’s like to lose loved ones. My whole family is gone. I know what’s it’s like to have the life you’ve led, the life you’ve believed in, be dismantled. And I know what it’s like to go on an expedition to find yourself again.

It doesn’t matter how that expedition takes form; the journey to find yourself again is powerful, and I’m still on that road.

When I sent my agent the first few chapters of a memoir I was writing, she told me to begin a different project. “You’re not famous, and you don’t have a distinctive, unforgettable voice like Mary Karr.” Harsh words, but so true. No one writes like Mary Karr. Her narration of her hardscrabble, traumatic upbringing in West Texas combines harsh truth, horror, and humor. The book is evidence that real life can be far more fantastical and engaging than fiction. 

I always love writers who play with language, and Mary Karr is an expert at creating wild and giddy combinations of words to present indelible images. She uses her poetic sensibility to distance herself from difficult memories, making it easier for me to read about them. When, for example, her mentally ill mother abandons the family without notice and returns several days later, everyone is so relieved, they can’t stop… show more.

The horror and the humor! This book reminded me of just how absurd the life of an addict is. I found myself laughing out loud at unexpected turns. Of course, we’re talking very dark humor.

The story of his obsession with Candy also reminded me of my own doomed love affairs, the sick love that often mingles with addiction. I’ll never forget the story of his cats, though. Davies’ observations on the behavior of his cats are as compelling (and horrible) as his observations of the behavior of addicts.

All addiction stories are sad in their own way, but as comic John Mulaney has shown, they can also be hysterically funny. And Candy proves it. 

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.  

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.

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.

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.

Rarely have I felt as seen and understood by a book as by this one. I recommend it to anyone who’s ever had a celebrity crush or any kind of pop culture obsession that people around them struggle to understand.

It’s wry, insightful, and candid. Reading it feels like chatting with a smart and funny friend who encourages you to see your passions as just as valid as anyone else’s—and to embrace joy.

As a dad, I’ve spent every December for at least the last dozen years returning to read out loud once again a set of children’s Christmas classics. With no slight to Dr. Seuss and the Grinch, it’s Judith Kerr’s Christmas story that I am most happy to read again. I asked my youngest daughter this morning why it’s the best choice, and she simply said, ‘Because it’s got Mog in it.’

Being a creature of habit, Kerr’s anti-heroic cat rather dislikes the Christmas celebrations, and opts out, as the Grinch would too. But as the Christmas story means new life in the dark of midwinter, then it's only appropriate that the books end with reconciliation and pleasure. And the aunts and uncles who stay with Mog’s family bring back to me relatives who were young in the 1930s and who visited us for our own family Christmases.