Undercurrent: Literary Fiction Worth Discovering

Dear Readers,

There's a particular thrill in being the first person in your book club to recommend what later becomes everyone's favourite read. Last year, I pressed a slim novel into a friend's hands—one that had barely made a ripple in the literary world. Six months later, she texted me: "I can't stop thinking about it. I've bought copies for everyone I know."

This is the magic of discovering books before the world catches up to them. Before the Instagram posts multiply. Before the think pieces proliferate. Before the inevitable backlash against the backlash. There's something pure about encountering a book in its quiet phase, when your reading experience isn't coloured by others' opinions, when you can form your own relationship with the text unmediated by cultural conversation.

This week's newsletter is dedicated to that magic—to the books that haven't yet had their moment but deserve one. The ones being passed hand to hand in independent bookstores, whispered about in literary forums, championed by discerning readers who know quality when they see it.

The Quiet Revolution in Contemporary Fiction

We live in an age of literary abundance. More books are published now than ever before, yet paradoxically, our collective attention seems to narrow around the same handful of titles. The publishing ecosystem has become increasingly polarized: mega-bestsellers dominate the conversation while thousands of exceptional books struggle to find their audience.

This isn't necessarily a failure of readers or even of algorithms. It's a fundamental challenge of abundance. When faced with infinite choice, we naturally gravitate toward social proof—we read what others are reading, discuss what others are discussing. The irony is that this collective behaviour often means we miss the very books that might speak to us most deeply.

Consider The House of Doors by Tan Twan Eng, a novel that masterfully layers colonial politics, queer desire, and narrative artifice in 1920s Penang. Despite being longlisted for the Booker Prize, it hasn't achieved the mainstream recognition of other literary awards contenders. Why? Perhaps because its quiet complexity doesn't lend itself to viral moments. It's a book that reveals itself slowly, that rewards patience and contemplation—qualities increasingly rare in our accelerated literary culture.

Or take Biography of X by Catherine Lacey, which creates an entire alternate American history through the lens of investigating a mysterious artist's life. It's formally inventive, intellectually ambitious, and emotionally resonant—everything we claim to want in literary fiction. Yet it remains largely unknown outside certain literary circles. The book doesn't offer easy hooks or scandalous reveals; instead, it provides something rarer: a genuinely original vision that challenges how we think about identity, history, and truth.

What these books share isn't marketability but excellence. They trust readers' intelligence. They take formal risks. They explore complex themes without easy resolution. In an attention economy that rewards the loudest voices, they speak in more nuanced tones.

The publishing industry, to its credit, continues to support such books. Editors still champion difficult novels, still fight for quiet masterpieces. But the challenge comes after publication. Without massive marketing budgets or celebrity endorsements, these books rely on a different kind of advocacy—the passionate reader who recognizes quality and shares it with others.

This is where independent bookstores become crucial. While algorithms push us toward the familiar, booksellers who actually read what they stock can guide us toward the unexpected. They're the ones who notice when a customer who loved Elena Ferrante might also appreciate Isabella Hammad's Enter Ghost, even though the algorithm would never make that connection.

Literary blogs and newsletters (yes, like this one) also play a vital role. We're not bound by commercial imperatives or algorithmic optimization. We can champion books simply because they're good, because they moved us, because we believe they deserve readers.

The digital age has democratized many aspects of publishing, but it has also created new challenges for literary discovery. Social media can launch careers overnight, but it can also create a winner-take-all dynamic where a few titles absorb most of the oxygen. The same platforms that allow readers to find niche communities also tend to reinforce existing preferences through recommendation algorithms.

Yet within these constraints, a quiet revolution continues. Readers who crave substance over sensation, who value artistic ambition over easy consumption, are finding ways to discover books that matter. They're forming reading groups dedicated to translated fiction, seeking out small press publications, following critics whose taste they trust.

Spotlight: When History Becomes Personal

This week, I want to shine a particular light on The House of Doors by Tan Twan Eng. In an era when historical fiction often feels formulaic—insert protagonist into well-known event, add forbidden romance, stir—Eng's novel demonstrates how the past can be made urgently present through precise attention to the personal.

The novel centres on the real-life visit of Somerset Maugham to Penang in 1921, but this isn't biography masquerading as fiction. Instead, Eng uses Maugham's presence as a lens through which to examine colonialism, sexuality, and the power of storytelling itself. The book operates on multiple temporal levels, with stories nested within stories, each revealing how narrative shapes our understanding of history.

What strikes me most about Eng's approach is his refusal to judge his characters by contemporary standards. Lesley Hamlyn, the novel's co-protagonist, embodies the contradictions of colonial privilege—she's both complicit in and critical of the system that sustains her. Her friendship with Maugham develops not through shared values but through mutual recognition of their respective masks.

The prose itself mirrors this complexity. Eng writes with what I can only describe as humid precision—every sentence seems to contain the weight of tropical air, the sense of things unsaid. Here's a writer who understands that in a repressive society, the most important communications happen in silence, in glances, in what's carefully not acknowledged.

But beyond its technical accomplishments, The House of Doors succeeds because it understands something fundamental about how we process history. We don't experience the past as a series of great events but as personal moments freighted with larger meaning. A conversation over tea becomes a meditation on empire. A glance between lovers illuminates an entire system of social control.

This is what the best historical fiction does—it makes the past psychologically real rather than merely accurately costumed. Eng achieves this through his deep understanding of place (Penang emerges as vividly as any character) and his sensitivity to the ways power shapes intimate relationships.

The novel also grapples with writerly ethics in fascinating ways. Maugham, in Eng's telling, mines his hosts' secrets for his fiction, transforming their pain into his art. Yet Eng himself is doing something similar—using historical figures to explore contemporary concerns about identity, sexuality, and belonging. The book becomes a hall of mirrors, each reflection questioning the morality of storytelling itself.

This kind of literary sophistication is precisely what makes The House of Doors unlikely to become a BookTok sensation. It demands attention, rewards rereading, refuses easy consumption. Yet for readers willing to engage with its complexities, it offers something increasingly rare: a novel that expands our capacity for understanding both history and ourselves.

What's Your Hidden Gem?

Before we close, I want to hear from you. What book did you discover before it found its wider audience? What title do you press into friends' hands, knowing they'll thank you later? What's the novel you've read three times that no one else seems to know about?

Share your hidden gems in the comments below. Tell me not just what the book is but why it matters to you, what it revealed, how it changed your reading life. I'll feature the most compelling recommendations in next week's newsletter, creating our own community-sourced guide to the undiscovered.

The best literary discoveries often come from fellow readers who share our tastes but have wandered down different paths. Let's build that community here.

Until Next Time

There's a quote I return to often, from the writer Marilynne Robinson: "I think a Christian liberal arts education is the way to prepare students to be the kind of people who can create a culture that has something in it worth preserving." I'd extend this beyond Christianity or formal education to reading itself. The books we champion, especially those that challenge rather than comfort, help create a culture worth preserving.

The ten books we featured this week represent hours of reading, thinking, and careful selection. They're not perfect—no book is—but each offers something essential: a new way of seeing, a challenge to received wisdom, a moment of genuine artistic achievement.

Next week, we'll explore another facet of literary culture: the books that changed their genres. Until then, keep reading courageously. Keep championing what moves you. Keep believing that in a world of infinite content, curation is a form of care.

Happy reading,
— The Page Sage

P.S. If you enjoyed this newsletter, please share it with fellow readers. The best books find their audience through recommendation, through the enthusiasm of readers who recognize quality when they encounter it. Be that reader.

Quick Links to This Week's Hidden Gems:

Read our full curated list of 10 underrated books worth your- →

Featured titles include:

• The House of Doors by Tan Twan Eng

• The Maniac by Benjamín Labatut

• The Book of Fire by Christy Lefteri

• The Rachel Incident by Caroline O’Donohue