If The Catcher in the Rye is
an adult novel, then why are so many teens obsessed with it? The distinction
between YA and adult fiction can be as thin as to be unnoticeable to the casual
observer. And such a petty thing as genre distinction will never hold back a
teen who loves reading. More than that, YA author Robin Wasserman, in an excellent essay about Stephen King’s ability to write great teen characters,
posits “There are some adult books that, for whatever reason, seem specially
formulated to wend their way into teenagers’ brains and take root, and I think
it’s because—like one of those high-frequency tones the rest of us are too old
to notice—these books are whispering secret truths certain teenagers need
to hear.” These are some books that whispered to me as a teen. And then
whispered again, and again, and again because I reread them so many times.
Here’s Robin Wasserman again: “What Stephen King reader didn’t fall in
love with him a teenager?” I fell hard when I read It. But I didn’t reread It for the way it made me terrified to go
to the bathroom or how I stayed up all night reading because I was afraid to
turn out the light. I reread it because it’s about a group of friends who love
each other, and how that love is the most powerful kind of magic. The young
versions of the characters are just on the cusp of puberty. The book’s
nostalgia for that age, as well as the late 1950s time period in which it is
set, perfectly reflect a teenager’s nostalgia for their lost childhood, which
seems to be an ocean of time away from their drastically different present. Also,
you’re welcome for not using one of the terrifying clown versions of this
book’s cover. I had the Tim Curry TV movie tie-in one, which had his picture on
the spine, and I would hide it behind my other books so that he couldn’t see
me. Eventually I just threw it away and bought another one, but I was still
scared it was going to reappear on my bookshelf one night, Talky Tina–style.
When Grace dies of cancer, her mother Clíona arrives to take Grace’s
teen daughter Gráinne home to the Irish island that Grace ran away from
many years earlier. A grieving Gráinne stops eating and shaves her head,
while Clíona
nurses past regrets. The Mermaids Singing
trades POVs between a third-person Grace, gradually revealing the circumstances
that caused her to leave home, a first-person Clíona, and a first-person Gráinne.
This was one of the first multi-generational books I read, and it felt
revelatory to be able to access characters at different periods in their lives,
as well as to contrast their points of view with the way others saw them. The
book is sweepingly romantic, with three fierce female protagonists. And as a
bonus, it taught me about Yeats and Gráinne
the warrior queen.
After years spent devouring Lynda Barry’s comics and her MG/YA book The Good Times Are Killing Me, I was
primed to love Cruddy. But it still
surprised me with its depth of honesty, strangeness, horror, and love. This
book is disgusting. And beautiful. It’s dark. And hopeful. It’s twisted. And
hilarious. Cruddy switches between the present, in which main
character Roberta traverses her town with a new friend, and the past, in which
a young Roberta sets off on a road trip with her violent and unstable father.
But that doesn’t even begin to capture this book. Barry excels at creating
worlds that feel alien and uniquely hers while still being relatable. The
things she does with language alone are incredible. I still sometimes yell out
“Shit and goddamn! The interruption! My program!” if people interrupt me while
I am watching television. Cruddy is a
masterpiece, and should be read by people of all ages, but I’m especially glad
I read it as a teen so that it could creep inside me and warp my fragile
developing mind.
In the Time of the Butterflies by Julia Alvarez
Alvarez tells the story of the Mirabel sisters, national heroes in the
Dominican Republic who fought against the dictator Trujillo’s murderous regime.
This book is at once stirring historical fiction and a wrenching family epic. The
POV switches between the four sisters, and between past and present, where Dedé
is the only sister who survived. Alvarez makes you love the characters and to
hope against hope that they will somehow avoid the catastrophe that every step
of their lives is building toward. Before I read this book I knew about
Trujillo, but Alvarez’s version of the Mirabels gives a visceral experience of
life in that place, in that time. The small, everyday moments of life—school,
church, marriage—continue to pile up, even as fear and violence squeeze and
distort reality.
Morvern Callar starts out dark: “He’d cut His throat with the knife. He’d
near chopped off his hand with the meat cleaver. He couldn’t object so I lit a
Silk Cut.” Morvern’s boyfriend has killed himself, but instead of calling an
ambulance, Morvern lights a cigarette, shaves her legs, and then goes to work.
She floats around her Scottish town, listening to her Walkman and working at
the grocery store. We float with her, as she drifts into a book deal, a
vacation by the sea, and the rave scene. Morvern is untethered, free, and for
the time we spend with her, we are too.
Dreamland by Kevin Baker
A historical epic, Dreamland
blends gangsters, sweatshop workers, Jewish immigrants, and, of course, Coney
Island. When thinking about history, a common trap is to glorify the past, to
laud it as more magical, safer, better than the present. Baker does not do
this. His descriptions of prostitution, opium addiction, violence, and alcoholism
are stark. After I read this book, I was obsessed with Coney Island history,
and eventually New York City history in general. But it’s hard to read this and
not pine for the Coney Island that was. For a time when you could ride the
subway for a nickel, take a trip to the moon and then a trip to hell, and spend
the night in a hotel shaped like an elephant. For a time when amusement parks
were meant to inspire a sense of wonder as well as to make a tidy profit. But
there I go, romanticizing the past.
When a book opens with a cast of characters, and that list includes
sprites, dogs, and humans described as “bohemians,” you know you’re in for a
good time. The main character, George, is a storyteller who lives in Ithaca and
writer-in-residence at Cornell, where the story takes place. Also in residence
at Cornell are a colony of dogs who run their own version of a university, the
Bohemians, who are like a frat only co-ed and way cooler, and the sprites, tiny
magical creatures. Meanwhile, watching over all of this is Mr. Sunshine,
another storyteller, who tinkers with the lives of those in Ithaca to bring
about his desired tale. This book made Cornell seem so magical that I decided
that was where I needed to go to college. Sadly, I don’t think the real school
has sprites, Bohemians, or a dog college.
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