100 books like Bel Canto

I love this book because it’s a triumph of storytelling—and by that, I mean both the way that the story is narrated, as the audiobook frequently gave me chills, and the way that the story is told by the author. I love this book because it’s realistic enough to draw me in, unusual enough to keep me guessing, and rewarding enough for every single second I spent listening to it to pay off in the end.

I was inspired by this book in the very best way: when an author presents characters with realistic, messy lives and then provides them with happy endings, it’s easy for me as a reader to believe that joy is out there waiting in the mess for me as well.

The dialogue and immersion into Southwestern culture is so immediate and authentic, one might as well have signed up for a secret journey into the heart of the borderlands.

Every paragraph reads like a masterpiece of literature, and taken together they comprise the kind of story that the reader wants never to end. McCarthy has the rare ability to entertain and edify at the same time. 

To portray the title character in Bizet’s Carmen is only one of the many transformations American orphan Lilliet Berne’s life requires, both on and offstage, as she ascends to opera stardom in late 19th century Paris. In this immersive novel, the clothes are as richly described as the music, and the music is described with not only sincere emotion but attention to realities and absurdities: Bizet’s early death leads to greatly improved ticket sales, for example. In Chee’s haunting first novel Edinburgh, he made choral music shimmer with both beauty and horror. The Queen of the Night is very different in setting, time, and sweeping sense of adventure, but shares Chee’s ability to movingly explore acts of survival and reinvention.

This book is perhaps my favorite of all the WWII novels.

Full of warm, eccentric characters and so true to what happened on the Channel Islands (where I have been conducting my own research!) Again it is set in the present and the past, with a present-day heroine going to Guernsey to meet with survivors of the Nazi occupation.

What starts off as a light-hearted mission gradually peels back layers of brutality and betrayal.

Any book set in suburban life with a dark underbelly has me hooked.

I loved the themes of privilege, race, and motherhood within the context of suburban life. I also enjoyed the contrast between such different ways to parent: a wealthy and seemingly perfect family compared to a nomadic and unconventional mother-daughter duo.

I think the story also raised some interesting questions about the intricacies of motherhood and, of course, how we always feel the weight of the choices we make as mothers and the impact of those choices on our lives and the lives of our children. Not to mention, what a great title!

To play music written in another century and played thousands of times since is to live and play inside infinite comparisons: between the way something sounds in your head, and the clumsier way your fingers deliver it; between your interpretation and a famous recording; between your effort and a classmate’s. In The Loser, Bernhard imagines the lives of two students studying piano alongside a fictional version of the real-life virtuoso Glenn Gould. Their recognition of Gould’s brilliance starts their own lives unravelling. The first-person narrator ruminates and rants without pauses or paragraph breaks, flapping memorably at the edges of the pages like a bird in a cage of its own making.

I expected a love story. The intriguing plot and unique characters impressed me. What I didn’t expect was one of the sexiest love scenes I’ve ever read.

Alongside the sexy stuff is the dark story of a Machiavellian circus entrepreneur and those who are subservient to his violent whims. Marlena, the abused wife/damsel in distress with a badass backbone and the young, compassionate vet, Jacob—there’s no better way to set up a white hot coupling.

While nothing in this book is red-hot erotic, there is no erotic experience greater than tacit lust that has gone unaddressed for too long between two people who not only love each other, but are allies and co-destroyers of a dark, callous personality. 

A Man Called Ove was recommended to me by my husband. He is a voracious reader who has no qualms in casting a book to one side if it doesn’t immediately grab him – so I take his recommendations seriously. 

Ove is a grumpy old man who doesn’t want to continue living after the death of his wife. It sounds depressing and I nearly didn’t bother. But Backman’s skill as an author turns Ove’s story into an absolute delight. Ove may be grumpy, intolerant, and set in his ways but he is unable to turn his back on anyone in need – including an unattractive, large cat.

The book is a testament to everyone’s need for community.

This was Dickens’s personal favorite of all his books. It’s so good it makes me remember parts of my childhood–sensations, thoughts, feelings–I’d long forgotten. My wife and I read it to each other at bedtime, about five pages a night.

It’s pretty sophisticated prose, but I bet a kid as young as five could get into it in the same way they can enjoy someone reading Harry Potter books to them.

There’s something reassuring about how long the book is, too. You’ll want Dickens to keep telling you this story night after night.

Reading should be fun, and this is fun! Margery Benson is a woman after my own heart. She’s impulsive, stubborn, and independent.

I cheered her on as she gave up her frustrating job and boring life in England to go on an expedition to the other side of the world in search of a beetle, which may or may not be a myth. Along with her lively assistant, Enid Pretty, Miss Benson encounters some hair-raising challenges that compel her to break rules and discover a new self.

Miss Benson’s Beetle is a rollicking adventure story, which explores what it is to be an unconventional woman. It’s full of unexpected turns but is also a gentle study of a friendship that flouts convention. Everyone needs friends like Miss Benson and Enid.