Books like The Secret Life — picked by fans

I turn to Mrs. Ramsay, the wife, mother, and hostess of this book, whenever I question my value in the world. By Victorian standards, she “has it all”: a doting (if difficult) husband, eight loving children (with whom, amazingly, she seems to have no problems), and a comfortable way of life. She alone, not her renowned philosopher spouse, not the young poet nor the dedicated artist who comes for a visit, brings meaning and harmony to a group of guests over one holiday weekend.

Mrs. Ramsay reminds me that nurturing and feeding (in all the meanings of that word) other people is a sacred task, even if our society doesn’t recognize it as such. Even a simple dinner party can partake of spiritual eternity: “Of such moments, she thought, the thing is made that endures.”

When I spend too much of my own day on seemingly mindless chores or… show more.

I’m drawn to books that buck expectations, whether that’s through the format, content, or approach. So I adore how this book absolutely tears them all down and creates something more original instead. Chunks of this book are written like social media posts, which create quick, digestible sections that let the absurdity, humor, and social musings really hit.

I also admire how Lockwood is able to switch so smoothly between hilarity, heartbreak, anxiety, and sadness; I was cackling one minute and then ugly crying just a few pages later. I’ve never read a book quite like this before. Lockwood’s writing style inspires me to take more risks in my own stories.

In contrast to John Berger’s Marxist aesthetic, Barthes’s approach to visual experience and photographic images draws upon the tradition of semiotics and, to a degree, postmodern theories of text and intertextuality. Barthes leads his reader into the codes and conventions of the image. How images signify is thus made a central topic that provokes self-reflection and reflexive challenges to conventional image analysis. Where Berger’s work is expository and analytic, Barthes's book is exploratory and novelistic (Barthes would have his reader approach the work as a kind of intertextual fiction). As the title of the work suggests, this is Barthes at his most personal and reflective. His fascination remains with the photographic image which is presented as one of the defining aesthetic objects of modernity. But the act of photography is now itself complex, mediated, and open to a range of concrete experiential impulses.

Here the viewer of the photograph is… show more.

I go to Ben Lerner’s writing for the shimmering atmospheres of his fictional universes. 10:04 is set in contemporary New York City and follows the narrator-writer through his urban routines. But between his health scares, relationship worries, and professional commitments, the novel thrums with a strange, uneasy beat as the narrator questions the fabric of modern life in a large city. He feels the sublime abundance of the commodities that surround him, whose very abundance is precarious. The book meditates on the fragility of the global supply chains that bring cans of ground coffee onto supermarket shelves and into our baskets. There is also a superstorm approaching, which threatens the city’s power. Lerner is wonderful on twenty-first-century, first-world malaise.

Set on a treacherous sea voyage in 1634, this impossible crime is cloaked by an atmospheric setting. Is a demon hiding on the ship—or is there a very real killer stalking victims in the claustrophobic setting? This was unlike any locked-room mystery I’d ever read, and it was impossible not to get swept up in the adventure on the high seas. With detective Samuel Pipps accused of a crime and imprisoned in cramped quarters on the ship, it’s up to his bodyguard to act on his behalf and prove a human hand—not a demon—is responsible for the murder and mayhem aboard.

I thought I had this book figured out from the start, but by the time I got to the end, I was pleasantly surprised that my expectations were completely subverted.

The twist at the end is surprising, sad, and perfectly fitting for this book. I’m also a sucker for a great summer romance story, and this one fits the bill perfectly. 

If you haven’t discovered Joshilyn Jackson, you’re in for a treat. Her Domestic Suspense novels are so sharp, cleverly plotted, and darkly funny.

It’s not old friends but new ones that wreak havoc in Never Have I Ever, as a glamorous “bad girl” newcomer joins the local book club—with ulterior motives.

This is a tale of the secrets people hope will stay hidden, manipulation, and below-the-surface danger, told with wry insights about human nature and crackling humor.

This book is such an usual book, and I love it for how strange and unexpected it is.

The story takes place in a near-future Edinburgh, where the world has dramatically changed due to an undefined apocalyptic event but has more of a gothic sensibility than a post-apocalyptic one.

There’s magic, history, and an extremely likable narrator wrapped in an almost-crime-novel package. 

Two words: cursed island. As soon as I saw this YA’s description of a beautiful island that isn’t what it seems, I was hooked.

Addie intrigued me as a protagonist. She’s a free diver who almost died and, as a result, still coughs up blood from the damage to her lungs. That doesn’t stop her wanting to return to the water, a desire I can relate to since I love the ocean. Addie gets dragged along on her mother and new stepdad’s honeymoon, but I like that she isn’t portrayed as a whiny teenager. She’s trying to make the most of what should be a dream island vacation—but in time, it turns into a nightmare. Skirting magical realism and horror, this book was unique and captivating.

Very few writers capture the longings of young men trapped in small towns, struggling to escape to new and better worlds than does Donal Ryan.

I grew up in an Irish-German neighborhood in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania where few people ever left. I knew those kinds of men. 

This book has many of the same elements of Ryan’s past work, yet it brings with it a profound take on Ireland itself. The novel is divided into several sections, each focusing on seemingly unrelated narratives, until the final section when the stories of the men in the novel heartbreakingly come together.

Throughout, Ryan captures the essence of Irish history—the good and the bad—and combines it with the country’s always-present profound and unexpressed emotions, and its beautiful yet curious contradictions.