100 books like The Host

This is one classic that everyone should read because it’s a pleasure to do so. I read this as a 13-year-old, and it quickly became the yardstick against which I measured every other love story. Yes, it’s a love story, and that is the heart of this book, but it’s not a sappy romantic tale. 

This book explores class structures, mental disorders, and a glimpse into another time. Intense yet leashed emotions form the backbone of the story. As a teen and even now, the brooding, dark quality of this tale really appeals to me.

J.R.R. Tolkien's masterful storytelling is unmatched, and The Lord of the Rings weaves together moral dilemmas and profound philosophical ideas seamlessly, encouraging me to contemplate the nature of power, the importance of preserving the natural world, and the significance of individual choices.

The book's themes of heroism, friendship, sacrifice, and the struggle between good and evil resonate deeply. In addition, each of his characters feels like an aspect of oneself; the introspection it inspires is brilliant!

The Lord of the Rings instills a sense of wonder, ignites the imagination, and imparts timeless wisdom, which heavily transformed my perspective on life, my values, and my understanding of the human condition.

Having read this book when I was 22, it helped shape my fear of the danger of complacent societies. Simply but powerfully written, its first-person narrative creates a sense of claustrophobia, a glimpse into the isolating and dehumanizing life of a handmaid. 

Through Offred, the traumas she experiences, and the people she interacts with the whole world of Gilead springs to scary life. While reading the book, it struck me that nothing was totally made up. Every incident in the book was derived from history. These things had already happened, and they could happen again. It showed me that victory is not always heroic and impressive. Sometimes, victory can be just surviving oppression.

I love the contrast of bleak desperation with gross opulence and excess that Collins creates in The Hunger Games.

The parallels between Panem and Rome turn what could otherwise be seen as a somewhat far-fetched or unlikely story into a reasonably plausible post-apocalyptic future possibility. I enjoyed the building of tension in the lead-up to the beginning of the games, as well as the explosive release and action when Katniss finally enters the arena.

I liked the way Collins creates an enemy in the very terrain of the arena itself so that, when coupled with the threat of the other contestants, the tension is heightened even further. 

I guess Rowling’s world of wizardry doesn’t show very often in lists about violence. But for me, it read like it.

The saga (in particular its fifth volume, The Order of The Phoenix) is not too different from the gnarliest Kung Fu legends and bloodiest stories of Samurai. The only difference is that the martial arts practiced in Hogwarts uses Wands instead of fists or swords. So, if you liked Harry Potter, here you go: like me, you enjoy stories not only with violence, but *about* violence.

About its lure, its bliss, its improvisational intelligence, and its incredible ability to shape individuals of any kind. Just like it did with my father, myself, and now my son.

This book is an interesting spin on a well-known fairy tale. I really enjoyed this one because the "princess" isn't a damsel in distress and the "charming" isn't always charming. They are written as multi-dimensional characters with character flaws and imperfections. They don't instantly fall in love. They bicker and disagree, but then learn how to work together to free her family from the curse that put her in the middle of the forest. I like the reality of having to learn how to work with someone else and the growth that comes from that learning.

David Charleston’s character resonated with me. He’s eccentric, passionate, and meticulous, while also being a great friend.

He’s also out for revenge against his father’s killer—A supervillain named Steelheart who has taken over Chicago. David unites with a secret group of people called the Reckoners who are trying to learn each villain's weakness to assassinate them.

David’s obsession with details is relatable, and against the terrifying powers of these supervillains, you're left on the edge of your seat hoping the Reckoner's schemes will be enough.

Veronica Roth's Divergent is like a loyal companion that stuck by me during the unpredictable ride of middle school.

Tris Prior's journey felt strangely familiar, like a reflection of my own struggles—moving from vulnerability to discovering an inner strength I never knew existed. Roth crafted Tris into more than just a character; she became someone I looked up to, a personal source of motivation. The whole faction system, sorting people based on traits, hit close to home, echoing my own battles with fitting in.

In the maze of adolescence, Tris's rebellion and acceptance of her divergence felt like a reassuring guide through my own self-discovery. Divergent was groundbreaking for its time, making it a comfort and a source of courage when times got tough.

Veronica Roth's storytelling, paired with Tris's tenacity, turned a dystopian tale into a deeply personal journey through identity, resilience, and survival.

The heroine is soulless – the book certainly is not.

An admirably determined and courageous young lady holds her own in a steampunk version of 19th century London where werewolves and vampires play an important part in society – and everyone knows they exist.

They simply belong to the Victorian upper class and try to fit their species typical lifestyles into a world somewhere between Charles Dickens and Arthur Conan Doyle. I thoroughly enjoyed the book. Werewolves and vampires: what’s not to like?

All of R. Lee Smith’s novels are dark, explicit, and fascinating, but my favorite (and it was a Sophie’s Choice, for sure!) is The Last Hour of Gann. The heroine, Amber, and her spaceship full of fellow pioneers crash land on a dystopian alien world inhabited by lizard people. The humans are woefully unprepared to survive in the wild and all too willing to turn on one another. When a passing lizard/warrior/judge, Meoraq, stumbles upon their camp, Amber jumps at the opportunity to beg for his aid, a near-impossible task without knowing his language. Together, they learn to communicate, and as Meoraq embarks on the futile task of keeping “his humans” safe, so begins the delicious, inexplicable, slow-burn romance between woman and lizard that I never knew I needed.