83 books like Catch-22 Series

I didn’t know whether to laugh or stage an intervention. This book introduced me to Ignatius J. Reilly, a character so insufferable and absurdly grandiose that I kept turning pages just to see how much worse he could get. I was horrified and hypnotized. I couldn’t look away.

What I love about this book is that it doesn’t ask you to like anyone. It asks you to witness the glorious wreckage of human delusion. It is chaotic, bloated, brilliant, and somehow still moving. Toole gave me a character I wanted to strangle, and a novel I wanted to reread. That kind of friction is rare, and I live for it.

Sebastian Dangerfield, a scruffy Yank studying at Trinity College Dublin under the GI Bill, loses his wife, finds a lover, and talks to himself–“In my heart where no one else can hear me.”

The book was banned for decades after publication in the 1950s, not so much for indecency (though there is that) as for sheer insolence. The Irish writer Sean O’Reilly asks: “Is there, even after all this time, something risky, illicit perhaps, about Sebastian Dangerfield whispering in your ear while your heart is bursting with laughter?"

Another 1950s anti-hero in the same gang as Holden Caulfield and Jake Donaghue. Another bad example for my guidance.

This book is one of the most haunting accounts of war I've ever read. Through the eyes of Paul Bäumer, a young German soldier, Remarque immerses you in the horrific realities of World War I. The sheer brutality of trench warfare, the disillusionment with nationalism, and the emotional devastation of losing comrades all play out in a way that feels as immediate now as it must have been when the book was first published. My grandfather fought in the First World War, and though he never spoke about it, I believe the emotional scars he carried shaped who he became. All Quiet makes me think about how those invisible wounds persist today—worldwide. War may evolve regarding weapons and strategies, but the psychological impact is chillingly consistent.

This novel isn’t just about the battlefield. It’s about the inner lives of soldiers and the way war corrupts not just bodies but minds,… show more.

A daring satire on race, politics, and cultural identity in America that somehow manages to be both outrageous and deeply sobering.

Beatty’s voice is like Richard Pryor meets Zora Neale Hurston—sharp, fearless, acerbic, wickedly funny, and incredibly smart.

Notably, although Beatty is an American writer, his book was published in the UK (likely because America prefers to live in denial about race) and went on to win the Booker Prize in 2016.

This was probably one of the most intense experiences with non-linear storytelling I ever had, and that did something to me I could not have predicted.

In fact, while reading this book, I started to turn the story into something of a philosophical discourse in my head. 

I really like how this book is at the same time utterly insane in parts—and I do say that with the greatest respect, it‘s the good kind of insane—while at the same time, it explores themes of dealing with earth-shattering events on a very individual level.

For me, the icing on the cake is that Kurt Vonnegut manages to even mix in a little history lesson there, because that bombing of the prisoners in Dresden? That did happen. And I didn‘t even learn about it in school—I learned it from this novel!

I still remember the first time I read this book. I laughed, then I winced, then I realized I had just been handed a live 18th-century grenade disguised as an essay. I was stunned by how Swift used reason itself as a weapon to expose cruelty. It is not just satire; it is intellectual rebellion in powdered wig form.

What I love most is how he never once breaks character. The horror of the argument creeps in slowly, and that slow-burn discomfort thrilled me. It made me rethink what writing can do… how it can mock, indict, and entertain all at once. I have never trusted “logic” the same way since. And I have never underestimated the power of deadpan again.

Stephen King’s memoir, On Writing, is brutally honest, deftly observant, and at times frighteningly visceral.

The skill with which he brings a bad ear appointment or the eating of too many eggs to life is a reminder to me that to be a writer doesn’t mean to live as a celebrity. It means to take the mundane pieces of an ordinary life and invest them with purpose and excitement.

I thoroughly enjoyed this book because it allowed me to look at my life, at my weird relationship with eggs, and my tendency to sing out loud in shopping malls, as the very essence of my next story.

Equally compelling were the snippets of writing advice layered into King’s story, another reminder that advice, as well as inspiration, can be found just about anywhere. 

As a historian of the Allied bombing of Italy, I read a lot of depressing accounts of the suffering of Italian civilians. It was a relief to discover that fellow historian Erik Linklater, author of the official British history of the Italian campaign, had published a comic novel based on his wartime experiences.

Its hero is Private Angelo, the reluctant soldier who issues forth such gems as: “It has taken us a long time to lose the war, but thank heaven we have lost it at last, and there is no use in denying it.”  Linklater doesn’t hide the war’s devastating toll or sugarcoat the occupation itself. “We are very grateful to you for coming to liberate us,” he has Angelo tell the Americans, “but I hope you will not find it necessary to liberate us out of existence.”

Like the Catch-22 character, Yossarian, Burns spent part of his time as a soldier censoring prisoner-of-war letters. His own prose was considered transgressive for its time. What struck me was not only his subject matter—who else wrote in 1944 about drunken, gay American GIs hanging out in seedy dives in occupied Naples?—but also his tone.

He pulled no punches in depicting the fraught relations and power differentials between occupiers and occupied, not to mention the resentment of the ordinary soldiers toward their superiors. Still, he captured the resilience of the Neapolitans with evocative depictions of street life, and I especially liked his ear for everyday speech—across a range of social classes among both the Americans and the Italians.

Living off and on in Italy for more than twenty years, I’ve been struck by Italians’ ambivalence toward Americans. On the one hand, they credit us with liberating them from Mussolini’s fascist dictatorship. On the other hand, they blame us for the harm that the preferred US strategy—aerial bombardment—caused to civilians and the sometimes high-handed and racist policies of the Allied occupation.

I was fascinated to find this deep ambivalence captured so well in Hayes’s novel, ostensibly a love story of a lonely US soldier and a destitute Italian woman displaced to Rome by the bombing of her native Genoa. As someone who teaches about gender and war, I appreciated the author’s subtle treatment of the power imbalances between two characters representing the victorious and vanquished countries.