100 books like The Transit of Venus

This is another of my go-to books in time of trouble.

Writing in 1871-72, Eliot goes back to the Midlands of her youth at the time of the Reform Act, 1832. So far, so dry as dust, I you say. But Eliot writes so well, creates such wonderful characters and deals with problems that still vex us today, not least the speed of change when you’d rather things stayed the same. But no one could not love the idealistic Dorothea, the frustrated Dr. Lydgate and the poet Will Ladislaw who becomes a great social reformer.

It’s one of the longest novels in the English language, but I’m always so distressed when I have finished it and have to say goodbye to the characters I’ve come to know so intimately.

This book was published years after mine, but I wish it had been around when I was going through my life upheaval. The author writes about relationships and has an intelligent and thoughtful take on marriage. You might not agree with her philosophy, but her book is eye-opening, will challenge your assumptions, and shares information that might help people as they rebuild their lives after widowhood, infidelity, and divorce.

I loved this book because it marvelously portrays the unintended and harmful effects of social class.

Everything about this work, including the dialogue, the setting, and the characters, is compelling. I think its lasting effect was to impress upon me the way an author can write about something tragic and sad and yet leave me with the feeling that I have encountered a great story.

This is another book I wish I’d been able to read when my marriage ended. In this memoir, Gina Frangello writes about the explosion of her own marriage, the cause of which was her secret affair. This might seem like a surprising choice, but in so many ways it gets to the heart of why modern marriages come apart. So many women, myself included, entered into marriage committed to the idea of following codes and rules that were not our own. This author bravely excavates the reasons for her affair without punishing herself, but taking responsibility. In this way it is a sister memoir to Rachel Cusk’s Aftermath. This is not a book about widowhood at all, but I recommend it because it can offer fresh perspective on marriage and relationships…for next time.

An autobiographical novel about drug addiction, robbery, imprisonment, escape, and personal transformation.

This book gave me confidence that I didn’t need to be defined by my previous misdeeds. That I could choose to be a better person and make a positive contribution to others. That my crimes could serve as motivation to do better in future, rather than an enduring and insurmountable judgment against me.

I’m not really a fan of Australian fiction, but I did enjoy Alan Marshall’s books.

Crippled by polio himself, Marshall had first-hand experience, which I found helpful for writing my book, especially since I Can Jump Puddles is also set in the early decades of the twentieth century.

More importantly, I find his gutsy approach to life in a tough rural environment, his no nonsense attitude, and his humour inspirational. 

As a writer, I found so much to admire in The Daughters of Mars by Thomas Keneally. Simply put, it’s epic. I was blown away by Kenneally’s Tolstoian precision of narrative and by the drama of two sisters who leave their confined lives in Australia and serve as nurses in WWI, first on a hospital ship in the Mediterranean and then on the Western Front. Keneally recreates a full sense of the times, showing how individuals can become enmeshed and shaped by huge historical events. The sisters confront not only the terrible effects of war but also a secret that haunts them. This is a stunning, multi-layered novel by a master, The Daughters of Mars has earned numerous accolades—and no wonder. It’s beautifully written and deeply affecting.  

Gerald Murnane describes the flat, boring landscape of Victoria, Australia and its minute variations with such crystalline clarity and sublime meaning that it resembles a dreamlike fiction, or a landscape viewed through a clear prism.

Murnane probes the boundaries between life and fiction, between landscape and mind. In between, he finds a membrane, a shimmering spiritual essence purer than either real life or fiction.

This book taught me that if one stares at the mundane world with enough hard objectivity, it can look more alien and beautiful than any amount of fanciful embellishment. It also demonstrates how a story can be told with no dialogue, no character names, and hardly any resolution, and yet can be as compelling as a conventionally written story.

This amazing book is about Oblivia a girl who survives gang rape living in a swamp with thousands of black swans who is promised to Warren Finch the Deputy Prime Minister of Australia an indigenous man.

In her journey we meet many out there characters told in mythic style in a future Australia devastated by climate change. This book is a potent mix of speculative fiction and magic realism featuring indigenous communities and characters. I admire it for the breadth of its vision and the intimacy of Oblivia and of course the swans.

Sometimes a book comes completely out of nowhere. Such was the case with Trevor Conomy’s Down Under. Conomy was not an author with a pedigree in music journalism or anything like that, but when Down Under came out, in 2015, it spoke for itself. The life story of a song – Melbourne pub band Men At Work’s “Down Under” – what makes the book compelling is not so much the story of its fluky success, when in 1982 it become a huge hit all round the world, but rather the aftermath: How more than a quarter-century later the song went to court against a copyright infringement claim. That it lost the case was a travesty and a human tragedy, and Conomy’s short, punchy little book reveals why in all its gory detail.