Books like This is Pleasure — picked by fans

I first read Lolita when I was 14 and have read it every few decades since, learning something new each time.

I love the first-person immediacy of it and the way it is a crime novel in reverse: the narrator is already imprisoned but not for the crime he describes. It is a love story turned on its head: what the narrator says is love is in fact abuse.

It is a road trip across the vastness of the US, like one I took when I was a student.

A nonfiction book that tells the story of three unrelated women and their unique but universal struggles; I loved it because of the author’s incredible talent for articulating the everyday lived experience of being female, the subtle and overt judgments, and the fact that women are held to different standards, even by other women.

"‘Even when women fight back, they must do it correctly. They must cry the right amount and look pretty but not hot." Many times while reading, I recognised myself, my sister, my mother, and my friends.

All three stories are highly engaging, but the truly compelling story is Maggie’s, a troubled girl from a difficult family who is preyed upon by her teacher, a married man with a family. The subsequent effect on her life is just devastating (remember, folks: this is nonfiction.)

The voice! The psychology!

I was captivated by the main character, who is so complex and nuanced and troubled. I will admit that, at times, this book edged up to “too dark” for me, but the realism of the voice and the way in which the fiction echoed hard, real truths about power and abuse kept me reading.

I haven’t read anything else that captures the simultaneous depth and shallowness of adolescent psychology so well.

I’ve never read anything remotely like this book.

It’s a painfully difficult but beautifully poetic read about an Irish girl from a miserably dysfunctional family with a difficult, abusive, ranting mother and a disabled older brother. After she is sexually abused by her uncle, the girl allows herself to be used by the boys at school and begins a series of loveless encounters, as if determined to prove how worthless she is. At college, she continues her career of joyless, destructive promiscuity.

The book is steeped in guilt and shame, redeemed only by the depictions of pure love she has for her brother. Like a poem or a lyrical poetry performance, the novel does truly incredible things with language.

I'd read mixed reviews but read Devil's Demise with an open mind. I thought it was brilliant! I could imagine each scene in great detail, it kept me frantically turning the pages, and I loved the believable Edinburgh cop camaraderie. The book is very graphic with intense scenes of sex, rape, and violence but it didn't faze me, if anything it made it more realistic albeit disturbing. This one does come with trigger warnings for the reasons above.

I always say that you never know what goes on behind someone else’s closed door. How they appear physically and/or mentally in public doesn’t tell their whole story. It’s like social media. We only share the good parts of our lives. Everyone has secrets and fears and reasons they keep parts of their lives to themselves. The Way I Used to Be is a perfect example of why we should never judge a person without knowing them and why we should take the time to get to know a person, pay attention to changes in personality, and let them know you are a friend. We are all guilty of not taking the time and this book is a reminder to myself that I must be better than that.

I can easily relate to the two female main characters who face life-threatening danger in performing their work and gender bias among coworkers. Despite it, they succeed. During my recovery, my counselors impressed upon me that women should build supportive partnerships with other women. It's not only constructive but very empowering. Together, like the characters in this book, we can build the careers we envision, and achieve rhe recognition we deserve.

 Lee Madigan, a clinical psychologist in Orange County, CA, specializes in treating victims of violent crime. She wrote her book after hearing repeating themes among her patients. I learned that the blame I was receiving, the adverse reactions I was experiencing, the microaggressions, were very common and not my fault. It helped me heal.

This 1975 feminist discussion really opened my eyes when I was a young scholar to how pervasive rape is all over the world. 

Brownmiller discusses rape during war, during pogroms, and during persecutions of various kinds. She focuses on sexual violence against Blacks during slavery, and against American “Indians,” as they were then called.

She also discusses prison rape and sexual violence against children. She investigates the literature on the psychology both of rapists, and of victims of rape. Although much has changed since 1975, this is a classic that anyone interested in the history of feminism, or the history of rape, should read.  

Michelle Bowdler’s piercing question pinpoints the hypocrisy of laws that often favor abusers rather than those they harm. This happens so routinely that survivors speak of two assaults: the abuse itself and the revictimization as they seek justice.

Bowdler was the victim of a serial rapist in Boston whose break-ins and assaults terrorized the city. After Bowdler reported the attack, she was assured that the crime would be investigated. Nothing of the sort happened. Is Rape a Crime? pulls back the curtain on how sexual assault victims are treated by law enforcement and concludes with a powerful demand for change.