Fans pick 100 books like The Patrick Melrose Novels

I cannot overstate how amazing this book (an autobiographical novel) is.

I was just trying to figure out how to write my own story when a professor recommended this book. I was blown away. At the time I read it, I wasn’t a big sports fan, but this is so not a book about sports. It’s about the rage, the wild beast inside us, and how we learn to live with it, and that it’s okay to be a mess as you do it.

By the time I finished the book, I felt like I had my own Virgil to lead me through the circles of hell. The writing in this book is like a drug in itself. It truly got me high.  

I loved this book because I could relate to the tough, emotional place the author was in when she made this epic journey. Her rucksack was extremely heavy. It felt like it represented the burden she was carrying at the time. I loved the unfolding of both her physical and emotional journey, how much she learned about herself, and how much she was eventually able to let go of to enable her to move forward.

Reading this book motivated me to go on a similar journey, hiking many of the Camino Pilgrimage routes. This was a book I thought about long after I had finished reading it. It had the kind of truth about it that stays with you. 

In the voice of her little girl self, Karr masterfully tells of her fractured childhood. Innocent, vulnerable, and pure, Karr describes life with her sister, a mentally ill, alcoholic mother, and a mostly absent father as only a child can.

She is sure life isn’t supposed to be this way, but without any responsible adults, she doesn’t really know how it should be. It’s beautifully written. I found myself rereading sentences and underlining my favorites. I wanted to read everything about Mary Karr when I had finished. 

The horror and the humor! This book reminded me of just how absurd the life of an addict is. I found myself laughing out loud at unexpected turns. Of course, we’re talking very dark humor.

The story of his obsession with Candy also reminded me of my own doomed love affairs, the sick love that often mingles with addiction. I’ll never forget the story of his cats, though. Davies’ observations on the behavior of his cats are as compelling (and horrible) as his observations of the behavior of addicts.

All addiction stories are sad in their own way, but as comic John Mulaney has shown, they can also be hysterically funny. And Candy proves it. 

I can not praise Edward St Aubyn highly enough. He is one of my favourite authors; I love his writing because it is heart-stoppingly true and affecting.

He portrays dysfunctional family dynamics with blistering accuracy, and I felt less alone reading this because I have been haunted by my own ancestral patterns repeating themselves through generations. I not only find St Aubyn laugh-out-loud funny, but he is also a brilliant observer of social mores.

Somehow, this book manages to be anti-spiritual while being one of the most spiritually aware books I have read. I love that St Aubyn does not try to make himself likable as a writer. There’s a ruthless fearlessness to his truth that I admire, which adds to his humanity.  

David Thomson can outmatch any film critic I know for sheer pungent accuracy, as well as passion. He knows every director, every actor, every movie, and he always has something valuable—and often something essential—to say about each one. Thomson’s New Biographical Dictionary of Film, now in its sixth edition, is a continuous delight, a perfect book for browsing. A required purchase for every film buff.

This is another book I came to via teaching; looking for new ecofictions, I put out a call on twitter and this title kept being mentioned by people I trust. When I read it, I was blown away by Hunter’s slim, powerful novel.

With the South of England underwater, Britons are forced to flee north to displacement camps, suddenly finding themselves fighting in supermarkets for supplies and walking the roads with their children.

I first read it for its depiction of eco-catastrophe and refugee crisis and its fascinating echoes of the fuel and food shortages of the pandemic. But as I reread it each year, I more insistently see it as a book depicting new motherhood as a crashing, overwhelming flood from which one emerges perhaps a year later, a haunted, dazed survivor.

This was the first ‘grown-up’ book I ever read. I was seven. I can still remember the green Penguin Books cover and the smell of old paper that accompanied it. I immediately became captivated by Sherlock Holmes and this mystery on the lonely moors. I still get goosebumps when I read that line, “Mr Holmes, they were the footprints of an enormous hound!” Yikes! 

I love Holmes’s brilliance and his friendship with ‘my friend and colleague, Dr Watson.’ I love his wry sense of humor, his untidy habits, and his Victorian manners. I’m a grandmother now, and I still love Holmes and this book as much as I did when I was a child. 

Who wants to live forever? Or, as in this contemporary novel, for 500 years or more? In his unique style and wit, Matt Haig explores the many pitfalls and heartaches that living an extra-long life poses along with some of the positives his central character Tom must endure. Yes, it is a time-travel story, if at times a little too long and with much inward-self psychology, but one that brings elements of history, real-life characters, and at times shocking revelations by creating a scenario reversing a real human genetic condition, making the reader think: what if? We’ve all thought at times how wonderful it would be to live forever. After reading this novel, I know what my answer will be.

As a dad, I’ve spent every December for at least the last dozen years returning to read out loud once again a set of children’s Christmas classics. With no slight to Dr. Seuss and the Grinch, it’s Judith Kerr’s Christmas story that I am most happy to read again. I asked my youngest daughter this morning why it’s the best choice, and she simply said, ‘Because it’s got Mog in it.’

Being a creature of habit, Kerr’s anti-heroic cat rather dislikes the Christmas celebrations, and opts out, as the Grinch would too. But as the Christmas story means new life in the dark of midwinter, then it's only appropriate that the books end with reconciliation and pleasure. And the aunts and uncles who stay with Mog’s family bring back to me relatives who were young in the 1930s and who visited us for our own family Christmases.