100 books like The Life of the Mind

This 1965 novel by English author Margaret Drabble follows protagonist and PhD student Rosamund as she becomes a single mother.

Educated, upper-middle-class Rosamund narrates with a quintessentially British and—for me—highly enjoyable blend of primness and humor. Fascinatingly and somewhat frustratingly, Rosamund keeps her pregnancy a secret from her daughter Octavia’s father, even after Octavia is born. She’s like a strange English Virgin Mary who studies Elizabethan sonnets and really doesn’t want to “put anyone out”.

Her story also offers an interesting glimpse into class issues in 1960s London and the way that experiences of pregnancy and motherhood can both transcend and accentuate class divisions.

Heti’s heady, meditative, heavily autobiographical novel documents its narrator’s personal ambivalence about the idea of motherhood.

While this is not a conventional novel with a linear plot, it is a gorgeously written reflection on what motherhood means, or could mean, in general and to our narrator in particular. With unflinching honesty, she explores not only the question of whether or not she wants a child of her own, but also her identity as her mother’s child and her position as a descendant of Holocaust survivors.

I found so much to relate to in these pages; I often set out to underline a sentence and ended up underlining an entire page, feeling like Heti had put her finger on something I’d experienced but had never articulated so well.

Kristen is a friend of mine, and I felt a strong sense of kinship to her work not only because I admire her personally but also because it deals with so many of my novel’s own themes—grief, family, unplanned pregnancy.

Motherest’s main character, Agnes, is a college student who describes her life on campus, her pregnancy, and the loss of her beloved brother through a combination of traditional narration and a series of letters written with increasing urgency to her absent mom. Agnes’s voice and letters are both hilarious and heartbreaking. Every once in a while, you meet a character who you miss when their story ends—for me, Agnes is one of them.

This blunt and surprising short novel is translated from Italian by Ann Goldstein and narrated by Leda, a middle-aged divorcee, professor of comparative literature, and self-identified “unnatural mother” who becomes infatuated with a younger mother she meets at the beach while vacationing alone. It’s an engrossing yet uncomfortable read; Leda’s descriptions of her maternal ambivalence are unnervingly yet refreshingly candid and often dark.

Readers who are prone to categorizing characters as “likable” or “unlikeable” will probably put Leda in the latter category, but one of the things I love most about Ferrante’s work is the way she explodes those categories, not focusing on the rightness or wrongness of her characters but rather honoring their complexity with brutal honesty.

I grew up in rural Ireland, so not exactly the gritty urban Scotland of Welsh’s novel, but the first thing that struck me about the book was its savage, semi-feral, intensely real Scottish dialect. I’d never seen anything quite like it in print.

The prose feels almost illegal, a ne’er-do-well that has simply decided to break into the publishing house and force its way onto the page without anyone’s permission. I didn’t consciously plan to steal this technique for my own novel, but how could I not endorse it?

Welsh has written more explicitly psychedelic works, but this book remains for me his masterwork, underscoring how, in many ways, his protagonist Renton’s life is at its weirdest when he tries to get sober.  

A huge departure from the previous books on this list, this book is a full-on thrill ride with one of the coolest narrative devices I’ve ever seen: A woman on death row narrates her supposed cross-country killing spree to a horror author who’s interested in adapting her life story.

She’s a fascinating woman, telling her story in a way that constantly challenged me to figure out what parts of her on-the-run narrative are real. She’s surprisingly sympathetic, even when she’s doing awful things.

I devoured this book in one sitting and haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

I’m not much of a re-reader, yet after I finished the five books in this series, I turned straight back to page one and started over, cackling all the while.

Although Johannes Cabal would be far from charming if you met him, following his adventures is a delight due to Jonathan Howard’s delicious, dry wit. Whether it’s coming out on top in a deal with the Devil, solving a murder on an airship, or surviving a time loop in a Lovecraftian universe, I have confidence that Cabal’s clever mind–and giant revolver–will see him triumph with black humor and grumpiness intact. (The only thing that may be his undoing is his annoyingly charming vampire brother.)

These are some of the funniest fantasies around, and it’s a crying shame how little-known they are.

This book tells the story of a teenage girl with terminal cancer who befriends a hospital chaplain and an elderly woman during her last year of life. 

She asks the big questions of life and finds friendship and meaning during existential and physical struggle. You cannot help but fall in love with the characters and share their efforts to find self, meaning, and hope during great struggle.

Sebastian Dangerfield, a scruffy Yank studying at Trinity College Dublin under the GI Bill, loses his wife, finds a lover, and talks to himself–“In my heart where no one else can hear me.”

The book was banned for decades after publication in the 1950s, not so much for indecency (though there is that) as for sheer insolence. The Irish writer Sean O’Reilly asks: “Is there, even after all this time, something risky, illicit perhaps, about Sebastian Dangerfield whispering in your ear while your heart is bursting with laughter?"

Another 1950s anti-hero in the same gang as Holden Caulfield and Jake Donaghue. Another bad example for my guidance.

I love this book, a beautiful celebration of young love set in the summer 1997.

It’s easy to identify with Charlie Lewis, his failed school career and his shambolic home life. He meets the rich and privileged Fran Fisher, whose background is totally different from his. The contrast between them is beautifully drawn and I felt for Charlie as he tentatively moved towards a girl he feels is out of his reach. His insecurity is moving.

The Romeo & Juliet link which is obvious from the title is well handled, enriching without being intrusive. There’s a heart-rending sense of nostalgia that reminds you of what it’s like to be trying to find your feet as a teenager.