Books like Valentine in Montreal

Wood writes Thomas Flett's world — the horse and cart, the shrimp trawling, the grey tides of Longferry — with such atmospheric precision that you feel you're watching a way of life disappear in real time, and the beauty is that he never announces the elegy, he just lets you live inside it.

Immersed in a boarding school with my parents living on another continent, I searched for comfort and found it in Charlotte Brontë’s novel of a young orphan struggling to make her way in Victorian England.

Although considered by some to be shocking when it was published in 1847, it was a sensation and has never been out of print since. 

"Do you think," she cries to the rich Mr Rochester, the man she loves, "because I am poor, plain and little, that I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong – I have as much soul as you – and full as much heart."

Complete with Gothic frills, brooding landscapes and high drama, leavened with intelligence and psychological acuity, Jane Eyre is a love story which contains one of the great cries for equality in literature.

Who could fail to respond? I certainly did, and I remember it every time… show more.

This is a haunting and sad book that gripped me right from the beginning.

The father-daughter relationship is frustrating, sympathetic, and heartwarming. This book made me feel so many things that are hard to put into words. There is a naivete in the pre-teen protagonist that is sweet yet so deeply broken by her circumstances, which was something I really related to, and the decisions that she makes are inevitable, real, and tragic. 

I loved this book because it captures childhood in the rawest way—messy, painful, confusing, and resilient.

Walls writes about instability and survival with such clarity that I found myself nodding through entire chapters. I related deeply to the burden of growing up too fast and learning how to take care of people before you ever learned how to take care of yourself.

What moved me most was the love within the chaos—the complicated, contradictory love between parent and child that shapes you long after you’ve grown. It reminded me that you can carry pain and tenderness at the same time, and both can be true.

Being consumed with writing and research, I’ve neglected my first love: literature. Then I picked “Angela’s Ashes” from my shelf and began reading.

The book left me with a vivid impression of WWII-era Ireland. It’s the story of a boy growing up in dire poverty with a passive mother and an alcoholic father incapable of fulfilling his responsibility as a breadwinner. The story is heartbreaking, but McCourt tells it with such warmth, humor, and Irish practicality that it leaps from the page. If there is such a thing as tragic joy, this memoir captures it.

I couldn’t put it down.

I was immediately hooked by this brilliant novel because of its unusual omniscient narrator, the Grim Reaper. Death, stressed out by the surfeit of “clients” he must deal with during World War II, reveals himself to be a sensitive narrator who sees everything. He especially keeps his eye on a young German girl, her loving foster parents, and the Jewish man they hide and protect.

I fell in love with these characters as they struggled with moral decisions, wartime hardship, danger, and tragedy. Despite the realistic portrayal of German life during WWII, I found this book to be an uplifting read. 

A reader friend recommended this book strongly, but I approached it a bit tentatively at first. Then the marsh swallowed me whole.

What dragged me in wasn't the murder trial, gripping as it was, it was Kya herself, this abandoned girl learning gulls and shells and loneliness the way other children learn arithmetic. I've grown up visiting forests with my naturalist father and still live in wild places so I was quite taken by the natural world written with such tenderness or a woman's solitude given such dignity.

And that ending was simply gasp-worthy. 

I’d read the reviews, so I was prepared for a great book. I wasn’t prepared to be thrown out of my comfort zone—but in the best possible way.

Mandel made me sit with what it really means to lose everything and still create something beautiful. It’s not about saving the world; it’s about creating a new dream and making it your home. I loved how it celebrates art, memory, and the strange persistence of humanity even when everything else is gone.

This book reminded me that hope is often raw, painful, and ultimately necessary.

I loved the Glaswegian (quasi-Irish!) voice of Shuggie Bain, but what I will always remember it for is its gut-wrenching depiction of the consequences of poverty and alcoholism for the titular child character. 

There were times when I was reading this novel that I literally flinched from it. It’s one of the most poignant times that I can remember having such a visceral reaction to a book. 

What I found truly remarkable was the book’s sense of simultaneous inevitability and hope. At once, I felt that there was only one possible end for Agnes and Shuggie, and yet I also somehow believed that both characters would escape their miserable situation.

This idea, that hope sustains even against the most improbable odds, accesses something fundamentally human. A book that can do that is one I would recommend any day.

I got this novel for my wife, but once I read her the beginning, she had to wait until I finished it before she could read it. It’s one of those books. It won a lot of awards when it was published and it became a Broadway play, and I can see why. Christopher Boone is on the spectrum, a teenager who doesn’t understand lies, emotions, and dislikes being touched. He does understand numbers, including prime numbers into the thousands, and knows all the countries and their capitals. He lives with his father, and when a neighbor’s dog is murdered, he sets out to investigate who did it. It’s not a simple story, but it’s told in a simple way that is easy to read, and a true page-turner. I like to find books that make you want to forgo television and this is one of them. I told my… show more.