An incomplete list of the books that have made me ugly-cry (part I)
At a beach club in Croatia, a tattoo parlour in Bondi, and the District Line en route to Richmond…
God I love a good cry. I know a lot of people think that crying in public is hugely embarrassing, but honestly, I have no problem sobbing into the hanky of a near-stranger over a book, which I know is very un-British (except the handkerchief part). I’ve cried reading on sun-loungers at beach clubs in Croatia, I’ve cried at bus stops, and on rail replacement coaches, and I’ve cried curled into the foetal position at in the lobby of a theatre in Sydney. I’ve absented myself from a friend’s pool party to read a book, only for everyone to double over with laughter when they saw me in a corner of the garden, sobbing into my hands. I’ve even cried in Bondi Ink—a tattoo shop in Sydney—for heaven’s sake. Let it not be said that I’m afraid of showing too much emotion (I can hear my step-dad howling with laughter all the way from the depths of the Berkshire countryside).
Much of what actually happened in the books I’ve listed below is hazy—I’ve often forgotten the names of characters or the cities they inhabit—but I could draw you a map of every place I’ve cried while reading them.
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Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
God, I loved this book. My step-dad had forewarned me of what was to come when I sat down at supper with him one evening, harping on and on about how much I was in love with Rhett Butler. Well, you know how it all ends, don’t you, Luce? he groaned, quoting the famous last line—Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn—which, of course, I already knew, but I still couldn’t quite face the cruel reality of what it actually meant for Scarlett and Rhett. When I finally reached the end, I was bereft, I retreated to my bedroom like a Victorian spinster in need of smelling salts, and I locked myself away for a couple of days to recover. A gorgeous, sweeping saga, featuring quite possibly the biggest heartthrob ever depicted in literature, it’s a brilliant, brilliant book.
Stoner by John Williams
I was pulling into Richmond on the District Line one evening after work—which likely means I was on my way to see my best friend Beth in Kew Gardens—when I finished Stoner, and Lord, did I get a few uncomfortable looks from my fellow commuters as I tried, and failed, to conceal my tears. It’s a quiet, deeply reflective book about a university professor in America, living a life of modest ambitions and quiet disappointments. But it’s precisely that understated tragedy—his unfulfilled desires, the small yet relentless heartbreaks—that made it so desperately, desperately sad.
A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara
It would be remiss of me to write any list of sad books without mentioning the saddest of them all—my favourite book, and the one from which I have a quote tattooed on the crook of my elbow. I cried reading it in a lift (a woman who had already read it asked if I was okay, knowing full well the answer would be no), I cried on the bus into Sydney, en route to see Hanya Yanagihara give the closing address at the Sydney Writers’ Festival, and I cried in the lobby of the Roslyn Packer Theatre, a hundred pages from the end (anyone who’s read it will know exactly which bit I mean). I howled so loudly when I finished it that my housemate ran into my room, wondering what on earth had just happened. And yes, I cried again at Bondi Ink, recounting the story to the incredibly hot tattoo artist as he etched a piece of the book onto me. He still looks a little uncomfortable every time we cross paths on the coastal walk.
American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins
I was nearing the end of American Dirt outside a café in Bondi when I realised I needed to head into the city to meet a friend. But I was so engrossed in the book, I couldn’t bear put it down. I walked to the bus stop, and while waiting, I cried, and I cried, and I cried some more and a man walking his dog, who I still see around Bondi on at least a weekly basis, stopped to ask if I was okay and offered me a tissue from his pocket. A beautiful, brutal, heart-wrenching story about the immigrant experience in America, I really, really loved it.
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
I cannot for the life of me remember who recommended A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, but it took me years to actually read it. It’s a tender tale about a little girl called Francie Nolan, growing up in the slums of early 20th-century Brooklyn, as she navigates poverty, an adoring but alcoholic father, and the small triumphs that make life bearable. By the time I finished, I was a mess—it’s a stark reminder of privilege and hardships and the daily moments that make a life. Despite how much I cried, it’s one of those books I want everyone to read.
The Best of Us by
I was living in LA with my then-boyfriend Josh when I read The Best of Us by
. I’d long been a fan of her writing, and her US publisher, Bloomsbury, had sent me an advance copy of her soon-to-be-released second memoir. It’s an indescribably sad account of her late husband Jim’s death from cancer. Josh was a dancer, and the day I decided to read it, he had a late night at the studio, and the poor guy came home to me in absolute hysterics. I often find myself thinking of Jim, and about the truth of loving, and living fully, even when it ends in heartbreak—as it will inevitably, for every one of us.