Spoiler alert: I do quite like a lot of these novels, but I will ruin them for you if you have never read them and decide to read on.
Good Morning, Midnight, Jean Rhys (1939)
Sasha Jensen: Ok, so throwing myself in the Seine didn’t work. I shall drink Absinthe on my own and obsess over hats and what colour to dye my hair. Now I might go a bit mental.
Madame Bovary, Gustav Flaubert (1856)
Emma Bovary: Oh woe is me, I hate provincial life! I was born to better things. I shall have an affair. Many! Balls, that didn’t work out. Shit, I’m in debt. What shall I do? Hmm, here’s some arsenic. Might as well…
Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro (2005)
Kathy: My friends are shit and I am being farmed for my organs.
Fanny Hill, John Clelland (1748)
Fanny Hill: I love having sex all the time, especially the first time I did it because I was written by a man and I get more pleasure from fucking for money than the men that pay me. The end.
Lolita, Vladamir Nabakov (1855)
Lolita: So I’m a trampy little sex obsessed underage slip of a girl. Don’t be fooled, I love it, even though I am 12. Once I escape the child rapist and make a new life for myself, he returns and kills my husband. Curtain fades.
The Autobiography of Alice B Toklas, Gertrude Stein (1933)
Gertrude Stein: I am a self-obsessed crazy social climbing lesbian who has to write a fake autobiography of my lover to make myself look good. I am mean to everyone, including Hemmingway and Picasso.