Books like You Don't Have to Say You Love Me — picked by fans

In this book, Alison Bechdel is obsessed with the triangular relationship between one’s parents, oneself, and literature, and, in my poetry, so am I.

Our parents are either puzzles we can solve or mysteries we cannot, but still we have to try. And in this book, again and again, Bechdel takes those insights and moments of beauty that literature offers, investigates her father’s life and death, and in this book (as well as the follow-up, Are You My Mother?), the meaning of her mother’s choices as well.

Now that I think of it, Fun Home is the story of how literature is always the child of what an author experiences in their life and what they read, the two brimming over into the impulse to make more words, understand more life. 

This is a stunning debut by a talented artist.

In the memoir, the narrator grieves for her mother, and in doing so, revives her Korean self and the parts of her culture she'd rejected as an adolescent. A beautiful grief memoir that reveals the ways in which a daughter's ties to the woman who gave birth to and raised her never dissolve. In Zauner's case, one of the strongest ties is the love of Korean food she shared with her mother. She finds her way back to her mother through cooking.

The book made me think about the ways in which my mother and I connected through some third thing that created the bridge between us. 

This haunting novel has stuck with me so vividly and in so many ways. Set in 1968, in a tiny village on the Labrador coast, it is the story of a baby born with both male and female genitalia to a hardscrabble couple barely eking out a living. They decide to raise the child as a boy, whom they name Wayne. Wayne’s parents keep the secret, even from him, and as he struggles to adopt the manly attributes expected of him, he can’t suppress his other self, a girl he calls Annabel, who insistently speaks from his innermost self. His journey to discovering who he truly is, and finding a way to express that self in a harsh and narrow environment is both painful and liberating.

Caramelo explores the places where lies end and stories begin, how family histories are built and shaped by each generation that adds its own versions of the “truth” to family lore. Lala, the narrator, is consumed by rumors of the daughter her father had with a washerwoman, a half-sister whom she imagines and seeks, a truth which she struggles to extract from a family known for its storytelling, its “healthy lies,” as her grandmother calls them. “You’re not supposed to ask about such things. There are stories no one is willing to tell you,” Cisneros writes. I love Cisneros’s amazing symphony of details—colors, smells, noises—the way she weaves so many stories together, her hilarious eye for human quirks, and her sparkling prose.

One of the many things I like about this novel is the way the writing itself mimics the confusion of the protagonist, Jonah—the way Chaon allows us to completely inhabit his mind, down to the most telling details, his doubts, and precise but uncertain perceptions. We too search for the person whom Jonah intuits but doesn’t know, we grasp for the shape whose presence shadows his life. I was dazzled by the patchy way that Chaon builds the narrative, the intriguing overlaps, and surprising connections as he moves between past and present, allowing the secret at the heart of the story to float closer to the surface. I felt deep compassion for the pain and bewilderment of the characters, for the way they struggled forward, for the complexity of their feelings for each other. 

Given the nature of my own memoir, I couldn't resist the title.

In my book, I also sought to recover my mother and make sense of her history and the choices she made, as well as her influence on me. Cistaro alternates between past events and current ones as she comes to terms with her mother's abandonment. The book opens with the mother's leaving and ends with her death when the writer is an adult with a family of her own.

Cistaro recognizes that she will never fully understand her complex and self-absorbed mother. I found myself wondering at our capacities to fully understand another person, especially our mothers. I also thought about how the only way to work through our anger over a parent's behavior is through an effort to understand. 

This lyrical novel is told from the perspective of two characters—the mother, Genevieve, and the daughter, Elizabeth.

In her old age, the Austrian-born mother reveals the family's complex history to her American-born daughter. Though Jewish, Genevieve’s father denied that history to portray the family as Catholic. Much of the novel’s power turns on the unraveling of that history.

The book made me think about the secrets that exist within families and the ways in which people shape their histories to suit the stories they wish to believe about themselves. I thought, too, about the cost of silence within families. I was also fascinated by the portrait of Vienna, as my mother spent a number of years there during a similar time period. 

A beautiful memoir in which the author reimagines her mother's life, telling the story in her mother's voice.

She benefited from stories her mother told her, much as I did in writing my memoir. Yang has taken it further by writing the book from her mother's perspective. It is the story of two generations of Hmong women—the author's mother and her grandmother. The narrative spans decades, starting with America's secret war in Laos. The narrator's mother fled Laos for Thailand and eventually the United States.

This memoir's structure gave me ideas about how to craft my own book, and especially how to animate my mother in the telling. It also made me think about the ways in which refugees remain outside the dominant culture of their adopted countries. 

I was ashamed to be a white man after reading this account of Native American thoughts and feelings on watching their land, their way of life, slip away.

Just the account of what happened at Wounded Knee, where unarmed Native American men, women, and children were gunned down in the snow, left me sick to my stomach.

This is a non-fiction book that I read on my spiritual journey. I researched several of the accounts in this book because I couldn’t believe they were true. They were.

Carol Potenza and I actually went to high school together, though we didn’t know each other back then.

When I saw that a classmate was also writing a tribal murder mystery, I had to read it. Wow, it was dark too! I totally got into the main character: this time, a female Tribal Police Officer. It was a nice change.

I also liked this tribe. I grew up with the Lakota peoples, so reading other tribal books with Navajo, Cheyenne, and this book involving the Pueblo gave me a good education on the differences between tribes and regions.