Books like Therese Raquin

What does it mean to be human, and what happens to us when we don’t receive unconditional love?

The two main characters in this Gothic novel, a human and a "monster," are presented in such a way that I questioned which main character was more human. There’s a warning of what can happen when we deny the basic human need for unconditional love.

Shelly’s use of a frame story pulled me in from the first page.

I love All the Names so much that I read it twice in a gap of ten years. I love it for two main reasons: how ordinary people can be immortalized by powerful writing and what decisions good people make in a moral dilemma. In his Nobel Prize award ceremony speech in Stockholm in 1998, Saramago said that his writings were to transform ordinary people into literary figures in order that he would not forget them.

He did exactly that in this book. An unknown woman was immortalized by the main protagonist, who was portrayed as an unloved, lonely clerk working at the Registry of Births, Marriages, and Deaths in Lisbon. As I was reading his story, I wondered what turned this unassuming, timid worker into a forger. Given the opportunity, would a good person turn into a tyrant? 

First published in German in 1939, I find this book still relevant to our time. One lesson I have learned is to examine my feelings toward those who are less fortunate. Other than feeling a sense of pity, how else should I react? The book makes me think about whether our pity as an outsider really helps or whether this feeling only serves as a defense mechanism that helps relieve our guilty feelings over living a life of abundance and security.

Hofmiller, the main protagonist of the book experiences such a moral dilemma: should he do more for a young woman who is less fortunate? The juxtaposition of his actions and those of the young woman’s father works exceedingly well. 

I love the fact that the book makes my mind busy. If the tragic hero of the story, Michel chose duty over freedom, he wouldn’t be a very bad person, would he? He remained faithful to his wife until her death. When it was not necessary to perform his duty anymore, he freed himself from worldly ties and indulged in his own pleasures. 

I love this book because it has so many layers. I love Michel because he dares to show his badness. One scene describes Michel’s beard being shaved off as though he wants to reveal what lies underneath. He compares himself to a Palimpset that contains the most ancient writing on its first layer. He is probably old Adam who feels compelled to act upon his original desire.

Sometimes it's helpful, even encouraging, to discover that problems we face today were faced by people in the past. Emile Zola wrote a series of novels about Paris in the mid-19th century at a time when the City of Light was being rebuilt along pretty extraordinary lines. At the same time that poor people were being tossed out of their substandard housing, some people were making fortunes speculating in real estate. The Kill focuses on the personal dramas of people on both sides of the equation, with quite a lot of sex thrown in to spice things up.

I was very young when I first read this book. Many years later I took it back from the shelf and went through its pages with older eyes.

The reality portrayed by Émile Zola in the 19th Century is quite brutal. The coal miners back then – with their struggle for life, excess work, permanent fatigue, lack of knowledge and understanding, contrasted by the careful calculations and comfort of their masters – mirror miners and other workers today.

Greed on one side, poverty on the other regarded as normal. The very few with enough wit to overthrow the injustice were silenced, as it happens today at the productive facilities of the capital.

Social unrest? No wonder.

Stories from the Kitchen is a celebration of food in fiction, an anthology of short stories combined with tidbits from novels. The authors are well known, ranging from Charles Dickens’ “Love and Oysters,” about oysters upending the life of a man and his dependable routines, to Isaak Dineson’s “Babette’s Feast,” in which a lavish dinner served by a French cook transforms the hearts and souls of the most austere members of an isolated Danish community. Another story of particular interest: M.F.K. Fisher’s heartbreaking “A Kitchen Allegory.” As in Fisher’s gastronomical non-fiction writing, in which food is her greatest metaphor, this slice of fiction uses food as a source of empathy for a woman who has to reckon with no longer being needed. Reading this entire collection underscores how my own book—though unprecedented in its number of recipes tucked within a novel— stands on a long tradition of food as… show more.

A terrific, candid book for both partners in a marriage rocked by an affair. They walk the reader through each phase of his infidelity and its impact on their marriage: the rationalizations, trauma, the fall-out, divorce, and eventual restoration of their marriage. Terrific insights, especially for the unfaithful. While Dr. Jay ascribes the key to their recovery as his wife’s constant love, I believe he overlooked another important factor: his wife stopping her tendency to over-accommodate, learning to set boundaries, and treating herself with more self-respect. It’s in the book but not credited as a significant factor in him wanting her again and motivating him to take a hard look at himself. Especially helpful for unfaithful men who are executives and travel a lot for work.

This classic is not a history book as such, but as a single source, it provides great insight into nineteenth-century park-making and context. It uses the Parisian situation as a pretext to recommend improvements to park provision in other cities, and I love it because the author is so direct and critical, not only with respect to the situation in the French capital but also elsewhere. He is an enlightened observer of fashion and governance.

Terse criticism is provided where required, and which I Iike, and sensible, practical recommendations that are intended to improve the situation in England and often still resonate today. I also like the horticultural detail provided and the sensuous lithographs of plans and views, and I adore the cover of the original edition, which I treasure. 

How Parisians survived Nazi Occupation—to what extent they resisted or collaborated—has been debated for decades but Sebba looks through a new lens: What did Parisiennes, specifically, do during these years? She was just in time to interview some key women who, having survived concentration camps, went on to live defiantly long lives. Others wouldn’t speak, still traumatised by their experiences. But Sebba has plenty to work with, and the pace at which she pulls it all together propels this book’s sense of importance. One can’t help but feel relieved that these stories have now been told. Some of it is shameful, sure, but you ultimately remember the tales of until-now-unsung heroines, whose fierce love for their city, above even their own welfare, makes them well deserving of a place in Paris history.