While it’s all well and good having a perfect, good-hearted, reliable narrator, over the last couple of years, I have found myself much more drawn to unlikeable, or even downright despicable narrators (let’s not read into that) and so, I have put together a list of some on my favourite books with dubious protagonists.

Other People’s Clothes by Calla Henkel is a gripping tale of obsession, substance abuse and murder, with more twists than hedge maze. Following two American students on their year abroad in Berlin, Henkel deftly explores how experiences shape personal identity, set to the irresistibly alluring backdrop of the Berlin nightlife scene in the late 2000s.

The novel’s protagonist, Zoe, struggles with retaining a singular identity, finding herself mimicking the appearance of both her murdered best friend (going so far as to date her late best friend’s ex boyfriend) as well as the novel’s secondary protagonist, Hailey: a wealthy, glamorous art student who stands out amongst her peers “where the average collegiate uniform consisted of paint-stained concert tees and Doc Martens”.

The use of fashion and cosmetics to paint a picture of a character’s personality is expertly used in this novel, particularly to convey Zoe’s struggles with finding herself, and while Zoe is not a particularly nefarious character compared to some of the others on this list, her pretentiousness combined with the handful of dubious choices she makes qualify her for a spot on this list.

When I saw the trailer for Sweetpea last year, starring the incredible Ella Purnell, I was intrigued. The advert depicted a mouse-like, shy woman who develops an insatiable taste for murder, and, being a stan of Purnell, I decided I needed to watch the show as soon as possible.

Upon finding out that there existed a book upon which the show was based, I held off on watching the show until I’d read C.J. Skuse’s novel and I must say, the book definitely didn’t disappoint.

Following the point of view of Rhiannon Lewis, an overlooked editorial assistant and sole survivor of a vicious attack when she was a child, Sweetpea begs the reader to question the ethics of murder as Rhiannon picks off opportunistic rapists and pedophiles, creating lists of people she would like to kills which range from the aforementioned sex criminals to celebrities she finds irritating (Shook my head in disapproval when Taylor Swift’s name found its way onto her list, not cool Rhiannon, not cool). Her cut-throat honesty and arousal at committing gruesome acts of murder is both hilarious and jarring, which made this book an utterly fascinating read that I devoured over the course of one day, as I struggled to put it down for more than a few minutes at a time.

If you’ve scrolled through aesthetically pleasing bookcases on Pinterest, chances are you’ve come across Eliza Clark’s Boy Parts, with its eye-catching title as well as its beautiful gray-scale cover and baby pink lettering. While the old advice is to never judge a book by its cover, in this case the striking exterior of the book definitely matches the intriguing story within its pages, as we read about Irina, a photographer specialising in capturing male erotica, sourcing her models from boys and men she encounters in her daily life.

Irina’s vanity and cruelty towards her friends and subjects have often caused critics to draw parallels between Boy Parts and Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho, with Irina reduced to being a Geordie Patrick Bateman.

While I understand the temptation to make this comparison, I feel it lacks the context of gender expectations and undermines the subversion that Clark so excellently crafts. Patrick Bateman’s torture and murder of women comes across as senseless violence that eventually becomes desensitising. He is a man killing women for the hell of it, disturbing, but ultimately shallow. Irina’s violence towards men is motivated by her artistic vision, adding a further layer of outrage as we read about her malicious acts. While she, like Bateman, extracts sexual pleasure from her violence, there is an uncanniness in reading about a woman reducing men to sexual playthings for her bloodlust that highlighted the severity of sexual violence in today’s world and how normalised the inverse of this has become in the horror landscape. 10/10 for making me think and curl up into a ball for an hour after reading.

While Gone Girl is the most famous of Gillian Flynn’s novels, I think I enjoyed Sharp Objects even more. As we experience the small town of Wind Gap through the eyes of Camille Preaker, a former resident who escaped to Chicago to pursue her journalism career, we learn of the secrets and tragedies that often are covered up and shrouded in these micro cultures.

A fascinatingly fresh twist on classic mystery novels, I added Sharp Objects to the list as Camille is a brilliantly complex character who suffers tremendously, yet, according to many reviews, is dislikeable for her seemingly aloof attitude and lack of sympathy towards herself, having grown up in a strong rape culture.

The novel is far from a light-hearted read, and so I would recommend this book as a slow read with a hefty trigger warning for self harm and mentions of sexual assault as well as gruesome murder descriptions, however it is a perfectly crafted novel that flows both smooth yet rapidly and enticed me like no other book in the genre ever has.

Finally, one of the most divisive novels to ever grace the screens of BookTok, Otessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation. I can’t even lie, I have read this book 7 times since buying it in 2022 so I do have to conclude it is in fact my favourite book of all time. Let’s not read into what that might say about me, please.

Following an over-privileged New Yorker in the turn of the millennium, My Year of Rest and Relaxation subtly covers themes of grief and moving on, as the unnamed protagonist endeavours to acquire the right cocktail of drugs to allow her to sleep for a full year, in hopes that when she wakes, life will just be better.

Her nonchalance to her sole friend, Reva, and her casual racism make the protagonist easy to disdain, however Moshfegh’s magnetic writing continually attracts me and so the novel very much becomes a car crash that I can’t turn away from, as the reality of grief and isolation penetrate through the pages of a book that some readers complain lacks a solid plot.

Characterised by substance abuse, aloofness and the shedding of an old skin, I find that My Year of Rest and Relaxation is very much marmite in the sense that those who like the novel thoroughly love it, while those who hate the novel really fucking hate it. And there’s something quite fascinating about loving such a polarising piece of literature that I ironically think the protagonist of this novel would find loathesome, which really just adds another layer of absurdity to what is already quite a meandering review.

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