Underappreciated books

My favourite topic, and a bumper compendium of recommendations

This is awkward to say when you write a newsletter that’s focused entirely on books, but so far, 2025 hasn’t been a great reading year for me. I know we’re only two months in; it’s just that I seem to be stuck in a loop of books that make me think ‘that was fine’, the type I enjoy reading but find myself with little to say about. I haven’t discovered any new favourites. Nor have I read anything awful that it’d be fun to tear apart.

But there was one book in February that, despite being little-known and having low ratings across the board, stood out as an unexpected highlight. Instead of writing a lukewarm monthly round-up, I decided this was a good excuse to talk about one of my favourite subjects: underappreciated books.

I think every reader has that list: the books that should’ve been bigger, that slipped through the cracks, that you’re always recommending but never hear anyone else talk about. Underappreciated isn’t quite the same as unappreciated – some of my picks have had their share of awards and critical acclaim but just never found their audience among readers. Others you may not have heard of before. Either way, these are books I think deserve a bigger audience, and it’s high time Substack heard about them.

The recent read that kicked all this off

Alex Hourston’s debut novel, In My House, is a prime example of how a book ends up in the ‘underappreciated’ category. Following an eccentric woman who takes in a trafficked girl, it suffered from a common problem: it was described and marketed in a way that led readers to expect a thriller, resulting in disappointment when said readers realised it was actually a thoughtful slow burn of a character study with a bigger focus on narrative voice than plot twists. Cue disappointment, cue ‘nothing happens in this book’ reviews, etc.

I’m not sure In My House belongs on this list; while I loved the writing, the story hasn’t stuck with me. But it’s because of In My House that I had Hourston’s second (and, to date, last) novel, Love After Love, on my to-read list. I finally read it this month, and it’s one of the best books I’ve read this year.

Love After Love is another hard sell, because its protagonist is that most unsympathetic of things: a woman cheating on her husband. Nancy, a therapist and mother of three, runs into Adam – an old university acquaintance – at a conference. Before long, they’re setting up a practice together, then falling into a full-blown affair. This story is Nancy untangling what this means for her: as a mother, a wife, a therapist, and Adam’s lover.

Like so many of my faves, this is a book that’s hard to categorise, with the cadence of a thriller but little in the plot to reflect that. It’s all very interior, very restrained, but that’s very much the point – Nancy is not the kind of narrator to bare her soul, and her distance from the reader makes the whole thing even sharper. Nancy’s inscrutability is her characterisation; the reserve in her narrative tells us exactly who she is. If that wasn’t enough, the themes – concealment and denial, the consequences of hiding from oneself – are further spelled out in a subplot about Marie, one of Nancy’s clients, who similarly withholds and withholds until she cracks.

The writing is stunning, just as exacting and emotionally loaded as I remember In My House being, and although it’s a reflective kind of story, key scenes positively crackle with tension. The mechanics of the plot get a bit too visible by the end, but honestly, I didn’t care. The writing is so sharp, so controlled, that I was fully hooked. Think Louise Doughty meets Katie Kitamura – elegance, precision, layers of meaning.

Difficult to categorise

It’s no coincidence that many of my favourite underappreciated books – like Alex Hourston’s above – are novels by women that explore intense relationships and play with themes of obsession. Publishers often just don’t know what to do with these books, so they end up being marketed as something they’re really not, or saddled with covers that tell you little about the contents.

Things We Have in Common by Tasha Kavanagh (2015) – lonely 15-year-old Yasmin is infatuated with Alice, a beautiful and popular classmate. When she bonds with someone else who admires Alice, it seems like a possible balm for their respective loneliness... except that Samuel is a middle-aged man. What unfolds is a twisted and sinister coming-of-age story. Blackly funny as well as instantly captivating, it’s a subtle masterclass in character-building with a teenage voice so genuine that Yasmin really comes alive. Even though I read it very quickly (because I simply couldn’t put it down), this book is so intense that images of the setting and characters stayed with me for years afterwards.

The Engagement by Chloe Hooper (2012) – a young woman agrees to spend the weekend as the paid companion of a man she knows. He’s paid her for sex before, the offer is generous, she needs the money; it seems like a good deal. Only when she arrives at his home does she realise the place is extremely isolated, and she doesn’t know him as well as she thought. This is another book I found unputdownable. It’s also one of the most terrifyingly tense novels I have ever read. A queasy, haunting, disturbing gothic romance with off-the-charts suspense and gorgeous writing.

Looker by Laura Sims (2019) – when a recently divorced woman with time to kill discovers a famous actress has moved in across the street, she starts spying on her new celebrity neighbour, and obsession quickly consumes her. This was pitched as a psychological thriller, which seems reasonable up to a point, but (yet again!) it’s really an intricate and very dark character study. The narrator is a brilliant creation; I found myself trying to pick apart her fantasies from reality, searching for what she’s leaving out of her warped, biased account. A must-read for anyone who appreciates an unreliable narrator and/or a love-to-hate protagonist. (Sims’ second novel, How Can I Help You, is possibly even better.)

A Bad Character by Deepti Kapoor (2014) – a vivid debut about a student in Delhi entering into a dangerous, doomed affair. Middle-class Idha has a certain amount of freedom, but she’s aware of the limitations of her life and unsure of what she wants – until an encounter with a coarse stranger in a café. Excited by his combination of ugliness and charisma, she throws herself into a second life in the city’s underbelly, replete with sex, crime, illegal raves and drugs. It’s a meditation on the life of a young, educated woman in India, and a raw account of a forbidden and ultimately destructive relationship. Reading it felt like living a little slice of another person’s life.

Personal classics

I call a book a ‘personal classic’ when it’s not particularly well known but is nevertheless part of my own personal literary canon. These are books I use as benchmarks, representing particular things I seek out when reading, time and time again.

The Legacy by Kirsten Tranter (2010) – in late-90s Sydney, insecure Julia forms a life-changing friendship with wealthy cousins Ralph and Ingrid. Years later, after Ingrid disappears on 9/11, Julia tries to unravel the mystery of her life. The Legacy is loosely based on Henry James’ The Portrait of a Lady, but reminded me more of The Secret History (the evocative nostalgic power of the main characters’ friendship), What I Loved (the depiction of the NY art scene) and The Great Gatsby (Julia’s role as narrator and perpetual onlooker to Ingrid’s glamorous – and tumultuous – life). An elegantly written, enthralling, criminally underrated novel with one of my favourite uses of a first-person narrator.

Communion Town by Sam Thompson (2012) – subtitled ‘A City in Ten Chapters’, this is exactly that: a collection of ten loosely linked stories set in the same unnamed city. Thompson varies the narrative style, moving from literary fiction to noir to classic mystery to horror, hinting at supernatural elements without ever quite making them explicit. So much is left unexplained, creating a patchwork effect that’s both disorientating and seductive. Communion Town was actually longlisted for the Booker Prize, yet still never quite seems to get its due. This book changed the way I read forever, and for the better; it did a huge amount to help me understand exactly what I wanted out of stories that use fantasy or horror themes. If you enjoy speculative fiction, I can’t recommend this enough.

Signs of Life by Anna Raverat (2012) – this was my own personal ur-text for not one but two subgenres I would go on to seek out again and again: confessional novels and affair narratives. In a rich, lyrical account that’s gripping from the opening line, Rachel rakes over her emotional history, specifically one particularly ill-advised relationship. She writes in apparently random fashion (as one might really recount one’s past), yet as the story progresses, a pattern of hidden secrets and uncertain details emerges. In this way, it’s also a book about writing: what you choose to keep and what you leave out, and why. It’s perfectly controlled and believable, such a superior example of a confessional narrative that I’ve never stopped searching for others like it.

Dark Echo by F.G. Cottam (2008) – remains my favourite ghost story, bar none, no matter how many others I read. A millionaire’s son is drawn into the dark and bloody history of a ‘cursed’ boat bought by his father. This is another book in which a first-person narrative is used to brilliant effect, with equally fantastic historical digressions that help to flesh out a truly evil villain. The worldbuilding and use of motifs are also stunning. This is one of my most frequently reread books, and it holds up beautifully, retaining its power to thrill and disconcert even when you already know the story.

Should’ve been huge

I know I’m not very good at predicting which books will be big hits... yet it still rankles when I read something that blows me away and it just doesn’t seem to catch on with other readers. These are four books that constantly needle at me simply because, deep down, I truly believe everyone should love them as much as I do.

Something New Under the Sun by Alexandra Kleeman (2021) – this book exists on its own plane: a bizarre, wild, colourful odyssey through a version of California that seems to be melting. It follows a dissatisfied writer and a former child star as they investigate a conspiracy involving artificial water in LA. It’s simultaneously a satire of the film industry, near-future SF, a thriller and a ‘cli-fi’ novel… and it’s also nothing like any of that. Kleeman is exceptional at taking symbols of capitalism, celebrity and consumer culture and warping them beyond all recognition in order to reveal the horror within. Yet an ever-present undercurrent of humanity means that, no matter how bizarre the plot gets, it doesn’t feel detached from reality at all.

The Earlie King & the Kid in Yellow by Danny Denton (2018) – in a future version of Ireland, it’s perpetually raining and Dublin is ruled by criminals. Told from multiple perspectives, the story charts the conflict between the two title characters: the leader of one of the city’s most fearsome gangs, and a scrappy teenage boy who’s in love with the King’s daughter. It’s a riot of endlessly creative language and clever contrasts, with politics and violence manifesting in folkloric figures. Somehow it’s a sweet love story, a gangland thriller, a dark dystopia and a postmodern folk ballad all in one, and it works like a dream. Dazzling.

The Ghost Network by Catie Disabato (2015) – a missing pop star. An unfolding conspiracy. A deep dive into fandom, situationism, psychogeography and... Chicago’s public transport system (yes, really). The Ghost Network is written as a faux-academic text/true crime account, replete with footnotes, but that doesn’t mean it’s a difficult read – in fact, it couldn’t be more fun if it tried. Part conspiracy thriller, part ultra-meta reflection on fan culture, it’s absorbing, addictive and wonderfully energetic.

Come Join Our Disease by Sam Byers (2021) – I will always bang the drum for this book. A homeless woman is plucked out of poverty by a Google-esque corporation but, disenchanted with the surveillance she’s under, gets embroiled in an anti-wellness movement. As the group’s acts of rebellion become ever-more extreme and scatological, the story transforms into something primal and transcendentally disgusting. Some scenes are repulsive (and that, of course, is the whole point) while providing undeniable joy and liberation for the characters – an ecstasy of filth. This is a fearless book that’s lurid and sickening, but also fun, impassioned, provocative and brilliant. Why it hasn’t been enthusiastically taken up by people who love taboo literature is a bit of a mystery to me.

Indie gems

Books from indie publishers are, naturally, less likely to make it big in the first place, and it’s easier for them to fade from view without the benefit of big publicity budgets and lots of copies in circulation. Here are a few I adored and would love more people to know about.

The Eleventh Letter by Tom Tomaszweski (Dodo Ink, 2016) – a psychotherapist is working late when a snowstorm descends and he spots a woman alone in the street outside. That’s the starting point for a sui generis ghost story/murder mystery/love story that shifts and morphs, becoming ever-more enigmatic, layering questions on top of each other, moving between truth and fiction, dreams and reality, blurring the lines of characters’ identities. It’s difficult to fully articulate its magnificent oddness, but if you like David Lynch and works of slipstream fiction like Anna Kavan’s Ice and Yelena Moskovich’s The Natashas, this one’s for you.

Death and the Seaside by Alison Moore (Salt Publishing, 2016) – would-be writer Bonnie’s unremarkable life is upended when she meets her new landlady Sylvia Slythe (A+ name). When Sylvia takes an interest in Bonnie’s work, she suggests a trip to the seaside as inspiration – but, of course, there are sinister forces at work here. Moore is an absolute master of the mundane; her writing recognises the strangeness and poetry inherent in it. Ordinary on the surface, Death and the Seaside slowly reveals itself as a tightly coiled tale of manipulation and imagination that delves deep into its characters’ innermost selves.

Everybody Knows This is Nowhere by Alice Furse (Burning Eye Books, 2014) – before ‘messy girl’ or ‘unhinged woman’ were ever a thing, there was this debut, about a nameless millennial whose post-university life is so disappointing she starts to think an apocalypse is on the horizon. Even in 2014, I thought it should be buzzier than it was; maybe it was just a bit too ahead of its time. Its contemplation of life, love, fulfilment and failure rings so true it’s sometimes painful; Furse does an excellent job of portraying the mundanity of office life/post-graduation aimlessness in all its dreary horror, yet the story is also, somehow, very compelling. Can a book be both gentle and sharp? This one is.

The Burnaby Experiments by Stephen Gilbert (1952, reissued by Valancourt Books, 2014) – Marcus, a boy with unusual powers, enters into the tutelage of an eccentric mentor, who promises that through a series of gruelling ‘experiments’, the two of them can find a way to cheat death. But Marcus’s naive commitment to the experiments leads to terrible consequences worthy of any of the horror greats. While it occasionally lags a little (tedious romance subplots are the bane of my life), The Burnaby Experiments is wonderfully weird, fantastic and profound. It’s about prescience and immortality and how terrifying those ideas actually are.

Ripe for a reissue

These are older, out-of-print books I’ve (mostly) managed to read via secondhand copies, but would like to see reprinted and back out in the world. They deserve rediscovery and bigger audiences – Faber Editions, Virago Modern Classics, Tor Essentials, I’m looking at you.

The Furnished Room by Laura Del-Rivo (1961) – a bestseller in its day, this is like the lost halfway point between Crime and Punishment and American Psycho. It charts the mindscape of a nihilist, chauvinist clerk, Joe Beckett, through his life of numbing excess in the bedsits, offices and cafés of 1960s London. When an insalubrious acquaintance asks him to murder his ailing aunt, Joe approaches it – in typically cold fashion – as an interesting moral dilemma, but things inevitably spiral out of control.

The Killjoy by Anne Fine (1986) – a priggish university professor recounts his sadomasochistic relationship with a young student. Ian’s confessional monologue slowly shows us how he fails to understand himself and others; how his obsession with Alicia goes hand-in-hand with shame and loathing; and, ultimately, the monstrous culmination of this strange entanglement. Make no mistake, The Killjoy is horrible, but also exhilarating – Ian’s voice is unforgettable. (This was one of those random finds in a secondhand bookshop that I’d otherwise have no idea even existed, i.e. the exact sort of thing that needs reissuing rather than endless new editions of classics.)

Greensmith by Aliya Whiteley (2020) – though a recent book, Greensmith has been difficult to get hold of since its (superb and much-missed) publisher, Unsung Stories, ceased operations, and I’d love to see it back in print. Penelope Greensmith is a ‘bio-librarian’ whose role suddenly becomes crucial when a virus infects the world’s plants. This leads to her being swept up in an intergalactic adventure alongside a dashing man who calls himself the Horticulturalist, but can he be trusted? If this premise turns you off, just know that I don’t usually enjoy this sort of sci-fi either, but here any outlandish aspects are balanced by the compassion and humanity Whiteley pours into her characters. It’s a story with a huge heart, and I still think about Penelope and Hort all the time.

Novel with Cocaine by M. Ageyev (1934) – this is a 1930s cult classic about a dissolute Russian teenager, his friendships, affairs and drug addiction. It should be on the radar of anyone who loved No Longer Human, and in my opinion it’s actually way better. Philosophical, funny and stuffed with remarkable descriptive writing.

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I wrote an ‘underappreciated books’ series for my old newsletter too, so if you were a subscriber then, you might have got a bit of déjà vu from some of these recommendations! This is truly my favourite book-related topic, and I’ve amassed more than enough material for further lists (I had to force myself to cut this one down). To be continued...