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Writers are a curious bunch, known for holding court at parties, charming their readers publicly, yet also famously — stereotypically — cranky in the daylight hours. They prefer their own quiet shuffling to any other human noise. I, too, admit a certain tendency toward this peculiar, self-inflicted isolation.

But solitude in characters can be tedious, dull and, worst of all, pretentious. Interiority alone never makes for a compelling novel. In these three books, the characters live not simply alone but forcefully isolated, until a single moment propels them from their places of comfort and silence. And when it does, they must confront a place they've successfully avoided for many years — that is, the world where others reside.