Some books are prized, placed under the category of “modern classics,” and remain unread on coffee tables. Then there’s the type of book that spoils an otherwise enjoyable evening—the one someone brings to book club that sparks a small argument over dessert, makes a friend text you at 11 p.m. to defend a character’s decisions, and stays in your head for weeks afterward. If you’ve been running a book club long enough, you’ll know exactly which one you want because these two categories hardly ever overlap.
The best book for a book club is frequently not the best book, which is an odd thing to acknowledge. In any case, not technically. A group of people can sit in comfortable, hazily appreciative silence after reading a perfectly written book, where every sentence hums and the structure seems inevitable. Beautiful. but silent. The kind of friction that causes people to lean forward in their seats and start talking over one another isn’t always produced by polished prose. Most of the time, something rougher is the source of that friction. On page 147, there were some unresolved issues, dubious characters, and scenes that really unnerved you.
Consider Wuthering Heights. At least one reputable literary critic has famously called Emily Brontë’s book a hot mess, and he’s not entirely incorrect. At crucial points, the pronoun antecedents become hazy. Many of the characters have names that are almost comical. By any reasonable interpretation of the text, Heathcliff is not a romantic hero. However, book clubs that choose it find themselves genuinely inspired, occasionally consistently irritated, and frequently both at once. This is a point of contention. The book requires you to adopt a stance, and conversations truly take place in positions.
Perhaps the most common early mistake made by book clubs is to confuse “books people feel good about reading” with “books people actually want to discuss.” They are not interchangeable. Selecting books that make everyone nod happily and leave by 8:30 is the fastest way for a book club to lose steam. Books that are morally clear—that is, those in which the right decision is clear and the characters are fundamentally good—produce consensus. Though pleasant, agreement does not lead to dialogue.
Moral ambiguity, or, to put it another way, characters who do things you can’t quite forgive or condemn, is what does spark conversation. Miranda July’s All Fours serves as a helpful illustration. According to reports, a friend of the author and book curator who founded the Magpie book club suddenly texted, “Nothing like getting into fights with friends over All Fours at book club.” It’s not a coincidence. Readers are disturbed by July’s book, and disturbed readers talk about it. They speak loudly. They speak over one another. That’s the whole idea.
Strong emotional responses, such as shock, rage, or the particular unease of seeing yourself in a character you don’t respect, also spark conversation in ways that admiration alone cannot. Brit Bennett accomplishes this in The Vanishing Half by using multigenerational trauma and identity issues that are so complex that no two readers seem to arrive at the same conclusion. Character motivation is often the focus of book clubs that choose it, which is typically an indication that the book is successful. Instead of just being admired, the characters seem authentic enough to be debated.
Then there is Rachel Cusk’s Outline, which operates on an entirely different register—austere, open-plane, vignette-based—and has the unique quality of making both fans and detractors argue with a fervor typically saved for more contentious subjects. Siblings argue about it. Friends stay at the table longer than they had anticipated. In this way, books that divide a room are more effective than those that bring people together. That’s revealing in some way.
Perhaps more than book club organizers usually consider, open endings are important. When a book ends too neatly, readers are left with nothing to fill in. However, a book that concludes with unanswered questions, unresolved consequences, or purposefully withheld meaning encourages the group to work together to complete the narrative. Ishiguro’s novel about an artificial friend navigating a world of human complexity, Klara and the Sun, ends in a way that raises as many questions as it answers, especially in light of the prevalence of AI conversations these days. It’s one of those novels that adapts to its surroundings.
It’s difficult to ignore the fact that the books people remember most aren’t always the ones they admired most when you watch all of this happen over years of book clubs—in living rooms, libraries, and the comments section of book-focused newsletters. Because of its vivid imagery and the unexpectedly broad discussion it sparked about connection and loss, Remarkably Bright Creatures stayed with readers. The Dutch House by Ann Patchett, Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri, and Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver are examples of authors who consistently write books that engage audiences and go beyond the simple “I liked it.”
When you take a step back, the distinction is actually quite easy to understand. Solitary reading is rewarded by great books. They provide you with a sense of understanding, clarity, and aesthetic pleasure. Excellent book club selections take a slightly different approach. They present you with an unresolved issue that requires the interpretation of others. There is nothing wrong with the mess. The mechanism is the mess. It’s what draws people in again the following month and keeps them chatting long after the last glass of wine has been poured.
