The best books that make you fall in love with male protagonists again

The Reverend John Ames—an aged Congregationalist minister in the small, secluded town of Gilead, Iowa—is dying of heart failure, while his seven-year-old son is just entering boyhood. As Ames wrestles with generational wounds related to his father and grandfather, he wonders tenderly about the wounds he might be passing on to his own son, both due to his presence and his pending absence. Thanks to Ames, we get to see life and existence through the eyes of the wise and dying—eyes we so rarely get to see through because, by definition, they leave us before we get a chance to look. The result is a luminous view of existence, and an abiding gratitude for having been alive.

When I was thirty-one, on a Marine base in Virginia, I had a spiritual awakening. I stepped out of my ego and saw it from the outside—this thing I’d thought was myself but was actually a persona I’d fabricated to protect myself. The experience left me no longer wanting to solve the mystery of life, but wanting to live in the mystery. Peace Like a River is the embodiment of this longing to live in the mystery of existence. Narrated by a young boy whose father’s mysterious, other-worldly powers are revealed again and again as his older brother faces and flees from murder charges, this book leaves you with the hope that the things we can’t see are even more graceful than we can imagine.

I remember as a boy weeping at the end of Where the Red Fern Grows, not because the dogs died, but because Billy Colman returned decades later to find the rusted axe from that fateful night still stuck in the tree. Great books show us time isn’t linear; it’s like an accordion folding over on itself, so a pivotal moment from our past can, in some mysterious way, always feel present. Here. Somehow on the tip of time’s tongue. It makes you ache with the fullness of your story, your life. The ending of Ordinary Grace did that to me. As I turned the final pages, I wept, my kids pounding on the locked door of the bedroom, and my own childhood pounding on the door of my heart. 

As a clinical psychologist, I’ve come to believe the boundary between childhood and adulthood is both incomprehensible, and yet essential to understand, if we are to reclaim what is most innocent and valuable within us. Drawing upon several clever literary devices, The World Played Chess is told through the eyes of a single protagonist, Vincent Bianco, a middle-aged attorney who is reflecting on his own adolescent choices, as his son is about to leave for college, and as he receives an old friend’s journal of his experiences as a nineteen-year-old boy in the Vietnam War. The story is a heartfelt meditation upon this boundary land between childhood and adulthood, and it will leave every reader reflecting on how young they were when they thought they were so old. 

Don’t be fooled. A Town Called Solace may open with little Clara, and Elizabeth may be the character who speaks in the first person, but neither is the primary protagonist. According to the litmus test for primary protagonist—"Which character is transformed the most?”—it’s Liam Kane. Once a lonely boy unloved by his mother, his wife is now leaving him, and he has retreated to the small town of Solace to care for the estate of a mother figure he barely remembers. Will little Clara and her lost sister and the ordinary people of this rural town be enough to coax him out of his loneliness and back into participation with his own existence? The answer is nuanced and tender and ultimately very satisfying.