Books like A Sliver of Light — picked by fans

After the news came out that Norman Mailer was writing a book about the life of Gary Gilmore, which came to be his magnum opus, The Executioner’s Song, he received a letter from a convict named Jack Henry Abbott. An avid reader of philosophy and literature who was also serving a life sentence, Abbott wrote to warn the renowned author against misapprehending American prisons and to teach him how to write about the violence of incarceration. The two men exchanged long, detailed letters. Eventually, Mailer collected Abbott’s letters in this book. In his letters, in a tone both detached and lyrical, Abbott writes unforgettably about what spending long years in prison does to one’s soul and body. In my view, the letter on solitary confinement is the finest and most harrowing chapter of this book.  

Charles Dickens the novelist needs no introduction, but not many people appreciate how fine a nonfiction writer he was. The American Notes is a testament to this, especially the famous solitary confinement chapter. Dickens traveled widely in the US, and he visited the first solitary confinement compound in Philadelphia. The people in charge, excited by the arrival of such an esteemed visitor, took him around the premises and allowed him to speak with a few prisoners. After that, Dickens wrote a passionate, brutal attack on solitary confinement as a barbaric form of torture, interspersing his indictment with heart-wrenching accounts of his meetings with the demoralized inmates.

The American carceral system is notorious for long, senseless solitary confinement sentences. While this is now public knowledge, we have actually heard very little from the people who have undergone such brutality. Hell Is A Very Small Place aims to give a platform to these people. This book is an invaluable collection of first-person accounts, composed by the people who lived this horror, many of them for unconscionably long periods. In their distinct voices, they articulate myriad ways time in solitary leads to the destruction of the human soul.  

My list would not be complete without a work of scholarship. Of the texts I encountered during my research, this one stayed with me. It helped me develop a deeper, more philosophical insight into solitary experience. This book begins in the early days of the penitentiary system in the US, analyzing the inmates' experiences through a phenomenological approach. It discusses sensory deprivation, the way the disorienting experience of time in solitary interferes with basic sensory perception, and what this type of confinement does to the human mind. The author shows that all the justifications about the redemptive, corrective or reformative potential of this form of punishment are weak attempts at concealing what it is: an effective tool for the annihilation of human subjectivity.

I loved Mud Rocks Blazes because Heather is not just an amazing athlete who writes beautifully about the outdoors. She is also somebody who suffers from imposter syndrome and speaks in a way about her accomplishments that feels so relatable.

Like “Did I really do that?” and “Does it count if I’m not sure I could do it again?” I won’t lie, when I picked up this book, I wondered if it would be a rewashed-rerinsed version of Thirst—but was surprised and delighted to find such an evolution in Heather’s story.

This fascinating history about hiking the Appalachian Trail spotlights a woman who demonstrated that age and gender aren't barriers to remarkable physical feats. Or should I say "feet"?

Grandma Gatewood was a pioneer, not only for women trekking alone, but for people of any age who set out on a journey others say isn’t possible for them. I was inspired by her story to take on a journey I thought would be marvelous, but beyond my capabilities. And I made it happen!

I loved Thirst because it rebuts the common criticism in the trail-recording-setting world, “You can’t enjoy the beauty of a place when you’re moving that fast.”

Heather’s descriptions of the natural world beg to differ. She writes as poetically about stunning landscapes, wildlife, and foliage as she does about her screaming feet and her innate desire to push herself to extremes. As a reader, I felt like I was right there with her for the beauty and the pain. 

All aspiring hikertrash have to start somewhere and Derick relates this journey with great honesty and humor. I started my vagabond life on the Appalachian Trail a decade before Derick did, but I found myself laughing in commiseration with his escapades as he learned what it means to walk across the country. Unlikely captures not only the highlights of hikertrash life, but also the lows, the drudgery, and the beautiful camaraderie that forms between people on journeys. Whether you hike or wander a different path, these themes connect for us all.

I couldn’t put this book down. I cried, I laughed, and I cheered for Finn and Beth to find their happily ever after.

This novel didn’t have what I would consider a typical marriage of convenience trope, but it developed regardless. No one is forcing them into a relationship but circumstances do push them there and both agree for very different reasons. Each have experienced a significant tragedy but one has fought their way out of the pain and wasn’t going to let it define them, while the other was still struggling.

Their chemistry was off the charts and you could practically feel it oozing off the page. Beth’s insight into Finn’s pain was touching and when Finn finally realized that he could love her, just made my heart burst.

I love the grittiness of this—an account of a walk along the South West Coast path, when terminal illness and poverty haunt the walkers and everything is in a state of flux.

It doesn’t glamorize the walk; it’s often uncomfortable with lots of biting wind and pouring rain. At times, there are even threats from others they come across who are sleeping rough. Overall, it’s a description of nature at its most raw and authentic.

Although we glimpse moments of inspiration and beauty, I like the fact, as well, that it doesn’t have a big, blowsy Hollywood ending—at the close, the future appears uncertain, although there is a definite sense that a new energy has been discovered.

It ends on a simple, perfect moment as the author describes her and her husband as “lightly salted blackberries hanging in the summer sun” and adds significantly that’s “all that is… show more.