100 Books Like Amusing Ourselves to Death

Any book written with an imaginative undertone gets to be amongst my favorites. In this brilliant book, the foibles of imagination and illusions of foresight are discussed, which cause each of us to misconceive our tomorrows and misestimate our satisfactions.

What I really like is the penetrating insight and sparkling prose that the author has used. Moreover, the very interesting take on why we seem to know so little about the hearts and minds of the people we are about to become has a flavor of its own. Mature readers will definitely love it!

It’s hard for me to overstate the importance this book played in my understanding of college-aged American adolescents. I loved the clarity, organization, and simplicity of the writing here. Bringing in time-tested wisdom from philosophers, ancient faith systems, and cross-cultural perspectives gave me the sense that I was reading about principles and values that will endure far beyond our fleeting cultural moments.

I loved the contrast of wise maxims against trendy and misleading slogans that create a more brittle and distressed generation of young adults. I loved the mix of psychological research, historical anecdotes, and individual college students’ stories, all profiled seamlessly in the book. The sections that look back at historical forces that led to the helicopter and then bulldozer parenting were particularly fascinating.

I love that this book takes a compassionate look at the difficulty of Gen Z without being too harsh or alienating the young adults who… show more.

It always seemed unfair to me that not only do we get just one life, but we only get to live it once. So I fell in love with this novel from the moment I read its premise: Ursula Todd is born and dies and is born again… and again… and again.

I love that she doesn’t remember her previous lives except as vague intuitions that help her avoid making the same mistakes twice–and I also love that avoiding those mistakes often means she makes other (often fatal) mistakes. I found this book funny, moving, and thought-provoking, but what I love most about it is the way its down-to-earth, realistic style allowed me to fully inhabit the impossible conceit at its heart. 

The author starts with the question: “Are you smarter than my chimpanzee?” When you finished the book, you’ll be so humble to say: I am not!

While reading the book, I was several times surprised by how adults (including myself) have a distorted perception of reality. For example, eighty percent of children worldwide are vaccinated. This means that almost all human beings alive today have some access to basic modern health care. However, on average, just 13 percent of people get the right answer.

Don’t forget that you can only make correct decisions based on accurate data. For this, you can rely on (the many) reliable databases that are available via the internet.

It was for me the first book that convinced me to think and work more with facts and data, i.e., evidence-based management

This book gave me a deeper appreciation of how moral intuitions shape political divisions—not as accidents of ideology but as features of human psychology. Haidt’s metaphor of the elephant and the rider helped me see why rational argument so often fails to persuade across political lines: because reason follows intuition, not the other way around.

His mapping of multiple “moral taste buds”—including authority, loyalty, and sanctity—also challenged the narrow moral frameworks that dominate secular discourse. While I don’t agree with everything—particularly his optimistic lean toward moral equilibrium or his underemphasis on structural power—I admire his effort to move us beyond outrage toward curiosity. It’s a valuable guide for understanding why we talk past one another—and how we might start listening instead.

This is a nice primary source assessment of the vast shadow created by Gleick and Bod’s books. Read simultaneously as both an artifact of the times as well as serious scholarly material, Boorstin deftly outlines the evolution of thinking and communication against the rising onslaught of electronic media flooding the world of the 1960s and beyond: the image and performative illusion of “pseudo-events” dominating our attention.

Read as prophecy, I also pair with Alvin Toffler’s Future Shock (1970) and Paul Valéry’s The Conquest of Ubiquity essay from the 1920s.

I first read this book while living in Venice in the winter of 1985. Morris writes of a sea voyage along the ancient trade route and to the maritime colonies of her beloved lagoon city and, in the process, reveals much about the aggression and rapacity required by its merchant rulers to build one of humanity’s most beautiful and audacious creations.

Her book, along with Mumford’s, was formative for my understanding of the dependence of imperial cities upon an expansive hinterland and the role of warfare in its acquisition. In Venice’s case, its ship-building Arsenale made possible the splendid palaces that line the Grand Canal and the immense pile of loot that is the Basilica San Marco.

Not much in common between Gombrich and Berger, ideologically—so I would presume. Yet Berger’s social history of Western art, woven into the rise of capitalism, advertising, and mass media, is similarly direct in style.

It irritates me; it’s supposed to irritate. Given its radical energy, the book seems surprisingly undated. First published in 1972, it also still seems adventurous in design—the art book as a work of art.

This book starts in a similar historical location as Bod’s book but quickly moves through the nineteenth and twentieth centuries—settling into the “information theory” era established by Claude Shannon, Norbert Wiener, and others in the 1940s-1960s.

I love this book because it situates the intellectual climate leading to our current dystopia of information overload. Gleick’s teasing of chaos theory inevitably pushes the reader to explore his book on the subject from the 1980s: Chaos: Making a New Science (1987).

At a time when it is easy to assume that things can only get worse, my late friend John Lewis’s memoir is a reminder that earlier generations—particularly Black Americans—have continued to struggle for a more just and humane society. 

When I first met John Lewis at a civil rights conference at Highlander Folk School in 1961, he seemed overshadowed by more charismatic figures present like Julian Bond, Diane Nash, and James Bevel. But, in a memoir that is modest and remarkably candid, we can see the extraordinary strength and staying power of his deep philosophical commitment to non-violence and to what he would call “good trouble,” even if that good trouble resulted in several beatings at the hands of mobs and white authorities. 

Much has been written about the civil rights movement, but in his book, John gave us an intimate view of the struggles. Beneath the mythology surrounding the… show more.