Have you ever dated a comedian? At first you’re laughing and having a good time. Without realizing it, you allow yourself to let down your guard—funny people, after all, are often perceived as light and frivolous. But then the quips get a little darker, their witty observations maybe too astute, too sharp, cutting. Before you know it, you’re laughing but also crying at an anecdote about a bowl haircut in the 10th grade. You realize that the bright and shining humor is actually the beam of a lighthouse, distracting you from the churning waters below—without which they, and you, might sink or dash yourselves upon the shore. “How did I get here?” You wonder. “And why does crying feel so good?”
Now imagine that experience, but in book form. In my debut novel, Five-Star Stranger, we begin by following the antics of “Stranger,” a rental man who is one of the most highly rated rentals on an app where clients can request someone to play roles ranging from husband to walking companion to funeral mourner. In the opening chapters, Stranger intentionally gets turned down while proposing, pretends to be a PhD student’s advisor to convince her to continue pursuing her degree, and picks up a little girl from school as her father—light, fun. But as the story progresses, the inevitable messiness of real human emotion rocks the boat. The little girl begins to realize that there’s something off about her “dad,” and Stranger has to wrangle with what sacrifices love really entails along with the legacy of loss that shaped his own life.
I don’t know about you, but for me laughing and crying are both a form of catharsis. And honestly, in this day and age when the internet feeds me well over my daily suggested limit of rage and hopelessness, maybe you, like me, need a little release.
Take a gander at these books that will make you laugh and then cry (though not necessarily in that order):
Death Valley by Melissa Broder
The narrator of Broder’s novel checks herself into a Best Western searching for the answers to her impending grief about her dying father and her ill husband. In an effort to escape the doomed trappings of her own overthinking, she decides to go for a hike in the desert where she encounters a giant cactus with enough space to hide from the world inside. What happens next has to be read to be believed. With lines like “If I’m honest, I came to escape a feeling—an attempt that’s already going poorly, because unfortunately I’ve brought myself with me, and I see, […] that I am still the kind of person who makes another person’s coma all about me,” it’s clear from the very first chapter that we are click click clicking up a rollercoaster of a ride that is at once self-aware, twisted, and hilarious—and none of us, not even the narrator, has any idea what we’re in for on the way down.
Chilean Poet by Alejandro Zambra, translated by Megan McDowell
Part love-poem to Chilean poetry, part family drama, this novel—translated into English by Megan McDowell—starts with an ill fated romance between two teenagers. Carla and Gonzalo are depicted with scathing, though not unkind, wit using amazing parentheticals like “(Gonzalo never did connect his sudden passion for haikus with his premature ejaculation problem).” After a falling out, the two reunite by chance a decade later at a club, where Gonzalo proves he no longer has a premature ejaculation problem and Carla reveals she now has a six-year-old son. The rest of the novel tackles many things, but at its heart is about Gonzalo and his adoptive son, as Gonzalo learns what it means to be a step-father, a poet, a partner, a scholar, and a failure.
A Personal Matter by Kenzaburo Oe, translated by John Nathan
This novel, written in 1964, remains one of the books that has shocked me the most. After all, how could a story about a man trying to kill his disabled newborn be funny? And yet somehow it is and somehow we can almost sympathize with Bird, the main character and new father who had dreams of traveling to Africa but is now stuck with the oppressive and universal feeling of what happens when real life obligations clip your wings. Often described as semi-autobiographical (Oe himself had a developmentally challenged son), the novel is explosive, raw, and horrible, but also deeply funny as it reveals us to ourselves.
Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant by Roz Chast
This graphic memoir tackles a subject not often discussed yet experienced by many: the caring of one’s elderly parents. Like several books in this list one might wonder, but how can this be funny? Chast manages to tackle bedsores, retirement funds, uncontrolled bowels, miscarriage, dementia, and danishes with an unwavering gaze, intensity, and humor that holds a mirror up to the absurdity of living (and dying). Perhaps because it is true, perhaps because it is often unbearable, the only response is to laugh. The memoir unflinchingly depicts two people so full of personality and so uniquely themselves that the book is not only a recording of their last years on earth, but also a celebration of it.
Afterparties by Anthony Vesna So
This short story collection with recurring characters is set predominantly in the Cambodian American community of Fresno, California. Each character’s unique voice serves as a different lens from which to observe the world So evokes, such that by the end we feel as though we have something of a 360 degree view, if only from the outside. The stories are raw, hilarious, and heartbreaking. In “Superking Son Scores Again,” a badminton coach and the owner of a failing supermarket tries to relive his glory days by annihilating the top player of his own team. In “The Monks,” a young man decides to spend a week at the temple after his deadbeat father’s passing to help his father’s soul in the afterlife, but after a week of chores ends up finding release in a more unconventional way. The collection is an undeniable force that will leave you reeling with feeling.
The Summer Book by Tove Jansson, translated by Thomas Teal
This gem of a novel describes summers spent on an island in the Gulf of Finland. The vignettes center around six-year-old Sophia and her elderly grandmother as they go about their days on the small island turning forests into magical menageries, looking for grandma’s lost false teeth, cleaning up litter, loving murderous cats, and writing treatises on angleworms. Along the way their conversations touch upon life, death, God, and love. The humor is present throughout as is the deep sadness both of the recent past as Sophia’s mother has recently died, and of the future as Sophia’s grandmother gets older. And yet, there is a humor in the sadness, too, as the grandmother thinks to herself, “It was too bad you could never have an intelligent discussion on the subject [of death]. People were either too young or too old, or else they didn’t have time.”
Never Mind by Edward St. Aubyn
The first book of the Patrick Melrose novels is so sharp and so slight you’re liable to cut yourself without noticing. In it we’re introduced to the affluent Melrose family: a cruel father, an alcoholic mother, and their five-year-old child who is just on the cusp of understanding how his parents will let him down. The novel jumps between their perspective and the perspective of the high society friends who will join the family for a dinner party on that fateful day. From young party girl to simpering old philosopher, somehow Aubyn manages to capture the voices of all his characters and not only poke fun at their mannerisms and hypocrisies, but does so in that rare way that still makes them feel multidimensional and therefore deserving of some sympathy (with the exception, perhaps, of Patrick’s father). Aubyn displays virtuosity of wry humor and fresh language on each page yet also makes us worry for the five-year-old Patrick and his future growing up in such a twisted family.
