Euphoria is one of them. I’ve read it three times, and I think it haunts me more every time. Maybe I wish the words would magically rearrange themselves so the ending would be different. But then I probably wouldn’t be thinking about it long after reading it. Euphoria is loosely based on the life of anthropologist Margaret Mead. The author, Lily King, created a fictional account of what happens with three young anthropologists in Papau, New Guinea in the 1930s, when anthropology was a new discipline. The story involves Nell Stone, already the author of a best-selling book about natives of the Solomon Islands, her husband, Fen, who is jealous of Nell’s success and is desperate for his own, and Andrew Bankson, who has just failed a suicide attempt. Bankson, eager for companionship, convinces the Stones, who are about to leave New Guinea to return to Australia, that they should stay and that he will find them a new tribe to study. The novel is about their relationships, their work, their beliefs about the study of other cultures, and how all of these things interact and play out among them. It’s also a love story with an ending that brings me to tears. The book is beautifully written. King does a wonderful job describing the sights and sounds of the jungle and the native tribes the researchers interact with. She’s also adept at creating tension, which she ratchets up throughout the book, especially with the love triangle she creates. While reading this, I felt as if I’d been dropped into the story and was right there with these three people up to the last sentence. The one that always makes me cry.