Fans pick 100 books like The Egoist

This book has become so familiar to us through cartoons and movies that we often forget how very weird it is as a piece of writing. The book begins when Alice, bored of her sister’s company, notices a white rabbit muttering to itself “Oh dear! Oh dear!”, and starts to become curious—not, mind you, because talking rabbits are impossible, but only because they are so very intriguing.

The rest of the book shares this bemused tone: Alice will be subjected to all sorts of indignities, including a near-beheading, but as a “good” Victorian girl, she will generally accept the bizarre reality that is presented to her. Carroll’s mastery of language is key to this effect. Nearly every character sounds sensible, turning well-formed logical sentences, but they never make much actual sense, and their speeches are riddled with so many puns, double meanings, and other linguistic tricks that one can never… show more.

Walter Pater’s only novel is not just weird for its style but also for its plot, which traces the development of a young man as he experiments with the various philosophies and religious sects of second-century Rome. But content and style go hand in hand, for, as Pater writes, “That preoccupation of the dilettante with what might seem mere details of form, after all, did but serve the purpose of bringing to the surface, sincerely and in their integrity, certain strong personal intuitions, a certain vision of apprehension of things as really being, with important results, thus, rather than thus.”

Language, in other words, is how we feel our way through the world, and the novel brilliantly captures the experience of being a young person for whom syntax and vocabulary constitute a way of life. When it was first published, many were repulsed by Pater’s convoluted syntax and rarefied tone,… show more.

Today, Thackeray is best remembered for Vanity Fair, but many of his fellow writers—including Anthony Trollope and later Virginia Woolf—thought Henry Esmond was his best book. The story itself can be hard to appreciate, delving into the intricacies of eighteenth-century politics. George Eliot called it “the most uncomfortable book you can imagine” because the hero ends up marrying his mother (figure).

The real charm of the book lies in its style, which is a painstaking pastiche of English in the age of Queen Anne. Thackeray insisted that the first edition be published using an eighteenth-century font to ensure the illusion was complete. Peppered with appearances by real historical figures (such as the poet Jonathan Swift), Henry Esmond set a new standard for the historical novel in English and paved the way for the parodies of later periods. 

When I first came across this story by William Morris, I didn’t think it was Victorian at all. The language and tone are archaically medieval, as are the plot points involving daggers and dwarves. And yet Morris was very much a nineteenth-century writer insofar as he shared that period’s interest in foreign times and places, including the historical past.

While Thackeray liked the eighteenth century, Morris was obsessed with the Middle Ages, and this book represents an attempt to adapt the style and spirit of chivalric romances to the form of the modern novel. The resulting work, by turns dreamy and gripping, set the template for future novels of “fantasy” (such as The Lord of the Rings), and still provides a fascinating way of escaping to—and from—the nineteenth century.  

I have to put Brecht on this list. Which Brecht? I don’t know, but I find myself coming back to the Journals more often than anything else. These record his responses to the world between 1934 and 1955, but the war years are the most gripping.

Once more, it is the seamlessness with which art and politics come together that characterizes Brecht’s achievement. Brecht is the touchstone, the rock, the ground to which I often return. Brecht’s prose—concrete, direct, transparent—has had more effect on me than any other author. I call it not just “getting to the point” but “getting it right.”

An interdisciplinary study taken to its logical conclusion. Starting with a powerful interpretation of Romanticism back in the 1950s, Peckham’s work culminated in an ambitious "general theory of human behaviour."

In essence, this book helped me understand that explanation is a form of violence–all languages, and all cultures, strive to enforce predictable behaviour in other human beings. Despite his flaws, Peckham offers a fascinating example of the power of interdisciplinarity. All subjects, when followed through, lead to all the others. 

Jill is a little-known but fascinating novel from 1884 about a young woman who, bored of her upper-class life, runs away from home to become a maid.

Jill is everything Victorian women weren’t meant to be: ambitious, scheming, brave, happy to lie, and much more interested in money than marriage. She’s also a bit in love with the woman she works for, which Victorian women certainly weren’t meant to be either.

There is so much I love about Jill, but one of my favourite things about it is how it turns Victorian tropes and expectations on their head, taking the set-up of a typically male adventure narrative and giving it to the character of Jill. It’s a wonderfully proto-feminist Victorian classic and well worth a read.

Published in 1848, The Half Sisters is the story of two sisters, Alice and Bianca, who grow up without knowing of the other’s existence.

Alice is middle-class, legitimate, and respectable, and goes on to have the life Victorian women were meant to have – namely, marriage. She is also bored and unhappy. Meanwhile, her sister Bianca, who is working-class, illegitimate, and definitively not respectable, chooses a different path.

Keen to make a career for herself, she becomes an actress, and throughout the novel passionately defends women’s right to work. The novel is engaging and accessible, though often forgotten now, and I love how it fantastically examines the different options open – and, indeed, closed – to women in the Victorian period.

What’s more fraught and intimate than friends? Sisters.   

Munro’s title story is about a relationship of extremes: sisters Char and Et can laugh over the darkest shit imaginable, and yet they also have certain psychic rooms they’ll never let the other into. Is this love or hostility? More happens in here than I can say, except that Char is the beautiful sister and Et the sharp-tongued, practical one, and an old flame returns and wreaks havoc.

It’s Munro, so there is sex, death, and betrayal, but delivered so obliquely you aren’t always sure what the characters deliberately did. Maybe that’s why this story enraptures me: it’s about the things you’ll never get to know, and I always think I'll figure it out this time.

This novel is sometimes described as the Victorian Pride and Prejudice, and it’s true there are many similarities.

Margaret Hale moves with her parents from rural southern England to a northern manufacturing town and experiences profound culture shock. She spars with John Thornton, the wealthy owner of a cotton mill, whose outlook and opinions are very different from her own.

In time their antagonism gives way to mutual understanding, and finally to love. But North and South isn’t only a love story.

There’s the ongoing conflict between the mill workers and the owners, and Margaret’s discoveries about herself as she begins to find ways to help the downtrodden. Gaskell was a minister’s wife in Manchester and interested in social reforms.

In this novel she explores many issues that are still relevant today. The book delves more deeply into the spiritual lives of the characters than does the BBC mini-series… show more.