In the mid-1980s, just after college, I took a job in San Francisco and spent two hours a day commuting on BART. Those long, rattling rides quickly turned me into a serious reader. I sought out novels substantial enough to drown out the noise and chaos of the train—stories that could fully absorb me. It was during this time that I discovered John Irving. The Hotel New Hampshire hooked me immediately (those Berry kids were unforgettable), The World According to Garp opened my eyes to ideas and possibilities I had never before considered, and The Cider House Rules spoke directly to my newly minted adulthood.
What stayed with me most, though, were Irving’s characters. Beyond the themes of feminism, sexism, and the quiet ironies of everyday life, he created people I wanted to know—people I rooted for, worried about, and felt strangely connected to, as though they might step off the page and become friends.
Recently, I read Ugly by David Michael Slater, and it transported me right back to those daily BART rides. A clear tribute to Irving, the novel echoes his sweeping language and ambitious scope, tracing the lives of three generations of women. Yet Ugly never feels derivative; it is fresh, confident, and wholly its own.
I immediately fell in love with Charlotte Adams, following her journey from a war-torn orphanage to the polished estates of England’s extended royalty—two worlds that appear vastly different but prove equally treacherous. The next generation introduces Margot Kentworthy, whose resilience and unmistakable moxie take the story in surprising directions, eventually rippling outward and across the Atlantic. Woven throughout these lives are familiar Irving-esque motifs—boarding schools, coming-of-age moments, and the struggle to overcome adversity—handled with wit, heart, and inventiveness.
Slater fills the novel with vivid characters and situations that spark genuine laughter, often set alongside moments of deep heartbreak. The result feels strikingly like real life: messy, unfair, and beautiful, with just enough surrealism to make it both entertaining and quietly sobering.
My only advice is this: don’t read Ugly alone. There is simply too much here to process in isolation. This is a book that begs to be talked about—to be questioned, laughed over, and cried through with someone else. Otherwise things might just get ugly.