Books like Captain Swing — picked by fans

I loved this book because it made a distant historical episode feel extraordinarily human.

I found myself fascinated by the small group of impoverished craftsmen who, in 1820, convinced themselves that they could bring down the British government. What stayed with me was not simply what they tried to do, but who they were, what motivated them, and how they came to believe that revolution was possible.

I am also full of admiration for the historical detective work behind the book. It reconstructs these lives from tiny fragments of surviving evidence, yet never feels dry or academic. I found it a genuine page-turner.

I loved Making Waves because it changed the way I think about democratization.

I was particularly struck by the story of the Danish king in 1848, watching revolution spread from France through the German states and deciding that the safest response was to concede power and introduce representative democracy.

Weyland’s many examples from Europe and Latin America made me see much more clearly how political ideas, institutional blueprints, and fears of revolution travel across borders. I found the argument both persuasive and memorable.

More than most books on democracy, it convinced me that I cannot understand political change by looking at countries in isolation.

I loved this book for the sheer breadth of its perspective.

I found it exhilarating to see democratic ideas and practices placed in a history stretching back thousands of years and ranging across China, the Americas, Europe, and beyond. For me, it was a genuine eye-opener.

It reminded me how easy it is to treat the rise and fall of democratic institutions in Western Europe since the French Revolution as the central story, when in fact it is only one small part of a much larger global history.

I came away from the book thinking about democracy in a completely different way.

I admire this book partly because I disagree with its central hypothesis.

Congleton argues that democracy emerged through a sequence of consensual constitutional bargains between kings and their parliamentary opponents, with the threat of violence playing little role. I find that claim provocative rather than convincing, and that is precisely what makes the book so rewarding.

I especially like the way it combines a clear theoretical framework with detailed historical case studies that put real institutional flesh on the theoretical bones. The cases are illuminating, deeply researched, and written by an author with an exceptional command of constitutional history.

It is a book I keep returning to, even when I want to argue with it.

I love the nuanced descriptions of how the four main characters and their families adapt to the changing seasonal availability of food within their households in Western Kenya.

Having worked and observed farm families in a similar environment just across the border in Uganda, I find the author’s description of the “hungry” season when the crops are in the ground but not yet ready for harvest, spot on.

I find his discussion of the importance of seed and fertilizer availability and distribution policy-relevant, and the work of the NGO involved in making it happen is inspiring.   

Perhaps not a page-turner, but a deeply engrossing study of how English people grew and foraged for the food that sustained them in the first millennium AD. The great value added here is the reliance on the very latest archaeobotanical data, in other words, on the fossil remains of plants, their seeds, glumes, bits of stems, and their pollens, which archaeologists have begun to salvage from digs and cores, to analyze in labs, and now thanks to McKerracher also to historicize.

The excellent British system of preservation, cataloguing, and online dissemination of archaeobotanical information bears fruit in a book that shows us how complex and sophisticated early medieval farming practices were.

With unmatched research and brilliant analytical thought, Nicholas Lambert upends long-accepted explanations of a military disaster—the Gallipoli Campaign—that not only rocked Britain in World War I but reverberates in international relations to this very day. His forensic examination of the British government’s symbiotic political, diplomatic, economic, and military decision-making should be required reading for all students of those disciplines. His approach dismantles accepted histories derived from the political assignment of blame and instead gives the reader an understanding of policy decisions tortured by a wide array of then-pertinent circumstances ranging from the price of a loaf of bread to the power of a Russian Tsar. We can hear the echoes of Lambert’s analysis in today’s cable news reports regarding globalization, disruption to wheat markets, and the political impact of inflation. A timeless work indeed. 

Farmer and author Wendell Berry is a personal hero of mine. From his home in Kentucky, Berry has been writing about regenerative agriculture for decades. The Art of the Commonplace gathers together twenty of his best essays. They articulate a compelling vision for people dissatisfied with the stress, anxiety, disease, and destructiveness of contemporary life. Berry is also the author of numerous works of poetry and fiction.

While several books have been written about the horrors of industrial livestock production, none have moved me more than Blanchette’s Porkopolis.

With unforgettable stories and startling photographs, Blanchette details how workers perform all manner of intimate tasks to make industrial pigs reproduce and stay alive. I also love how he flips common-sense ideas of efficiency on their heads, showing how industrial meat production is anything but wasteful. Every bit of those pigs is used somewhere to the extent you wish they weren’t.

I have taught this book three times in my politics of food classes, and it never fails to blow my students away.

This book upended the common—and my—perception of progress in human agriculture. The common assumption was that the fortuitous invention of agricultural tools like the hoe, the plow, and fertilizer produced advances in human agriculture's productivity, permitting larger populations to be supported. Boserup argued that growing populations forced farming to be intensified by dramatically reducing fallow periods and demanding compensatory technological changes.

Stimulated by this book and aware of Lee’s work (above), I expanded her argument to include the origins and intensification of agriculture. Her concept of population “pressure” as a motivator of change underlies much of my later work.