100 Books Like Christ In Concrete

This book is really a call to action, and even today, it is hard to read this novel and not feel anger on behalf of Jurgis and Ona. Perhaps that is why I like this book so much. It is visceral. I get angry at money-grubbing management who care nothing about their employees.

I swore off meat for a while, disgusted with the factory conditions of the time. I mourn Jurgis and Ona's inability to achieve the American dream. In this book, I am brought into the Chicago immigrant experience at the turn of the 20th Century.

A character-driven novel with seemingly simple, captivating scenes that move at a thrilling clip. April and Frank, a married couple living in 1950s suburbia trying to survive their lives after WWII, are human and flawed.

At times, I despised and loved them simultaneously. It’s relationship at its ugliest and most passionate. The desperation they feel, their attempt at normalcy, and their desire to break away from it all, their angst and anguish, are timeless themes.

There’s a scene where they decide to give up their lives and move to Paris, and I thought, how many times I have done that? The novel, unlike its characters, is flawless.

Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, published in 1941 to great critical acclaim, centers on three tenant families living in Alabama’s Cotton Belt during the Great Depression.

Through Agee’s Elizabethan, “night-permeated” prose and Evans’s unflinching B & W photographs, the reader experiences every aspect of these sharecroppers’ lives—their shelter, their customs, and, most pointedly, their work.

The university where I teach sits across the road from an Amish farm, and I often wonder how these good people carry on. They possess a dignity and a grace, but, like Agee’s subjects, they perform “simple and terrible work,” so routine and so repetitive that it becomes “the very essence of their lives.”

And yet, miraculously, it does not break them; they persist, and this book, in an indirect and unexpected way, has illuminated that persistence for me. 

In this profound yet highly readable book, the contemporary French philosopher Alain de Botton profiles a number of career professionals, among them an accountant, a painter, a transmission engineer, and yes, a rocket scientist.

At the heart of de Botton’s enquiry is a rather simple question: Is work more than just making money? I believe that it is, and the philosopher’s conclusions say as much.

He urges workers of all stripes to “make an imaginative connection between what they have done with their working days and their impact upon others.” Writing these recommendations has been a kind of work, and it’s not hard for me to imagine that my words have had some impact upon you, my reader, an influence, hopefully, beyond the decision to purchase my book. 

This coming-of-age novel-in-verse beautifully captures the dynamics of survival in tough neighborhoods in a way that honors the humanity and nuance of the community—details that are too often lost in media and forgotten by the people that “make it out.” Through the lens of the Puerto Rican-American protagonist, Sarai, her family, and the neighborhood characters that are all too familiar, I was brought into the heart of pre-gentrified Bushwick, Brooklyn, and Puerto Rican culture to go on Sarai’s journey of self-discovery. We are sitting on the stoop, at the foot of the bed, in the back pew in conversation with Sarai. We see her, we hear her, we love her. And won’t ever forget her. We are left to reflect on what it really means to “make it.”

Before reading this book, I had no idea city-based fantasy novels could draw me in as powerfully as stories with more “traditional” fantasy settings. But Mr. Older’s depiction of Brooklyn as a living, breathing landscape made me a new believer in urban magic. And the main character Sierra’s shadowshaping feels like its own form of beautiful, youthful rebellion. Art can save us, if only we breathe our power into it. I stop and stare at most graffiti murals now, waiting for them to move a little.

I grew up in Brooklyn, New York in the 1940s and 1950s. As one of New York City’s 5 boroughs it has character and even a mystique about it, and we Brooklynites are often very proud of our heritage.

Until I was about 13 the Brooklyn Dodgers were the zany, irreverent, baseball upstarts who sometimes even won the World Series. And they hired Jackie Robinson, desegregating professional baseball. All of this is to say that when High Ryan published his book, I devoured it as it fused my Brooklyn heritage and my queer identity.

Starting with poet Walt Whitman, he takes us through the writers, the dock workers, the socialists, the communists, the college professors and artists, who were lesbian or gay and both shaped and were shaped by the city, Ryan’s archival research is amazing, and his writing style breezy, and accessible.  Even if you’re not from Brooklyn (!)… show more.

Before David Adjmi became an acclaimed playwright, he was contending with his complicated upbringing in Brooklyn, New York, the child of Syrian Jewish parents, being schooled in a Yeshiva, and trying to come to terms with being gay. Adjmi writes with incredible candor about feeling like a perpetual outsider, including—or especially—within his own family. The title borrows its name from a pejorative term for gays that his family would often use to their great amusement and Adjmi’s mortification. Bonus viewing: Marie Antoinette, The Evildoers, Stunning, Stereophonic, or any number of his plays, where you will be able see how and where nonfiction is transmuted into theatre.

I’ve read this book more than any book I’ve ever read. It’s what inspired me to not just want to be a writer but a sportswriter.

Telander does what all writers aspire to do: Turn a slice-of-life story—in this case, a group of Black kids from Brooklyn who love playground basketball—into a bigger lesson about human connection. He uses curiosity, an eye for details, and a sense of humor to make every character feel fully realized. 

The people in this book shaped the spaces and sidewalks of a city I know well. Prithi Kanakamedala’s telling of four Black families’ stories and the ways they shaped Brooklyn gave depth to my own way of thinking, writing, and caring about the borough. 

I love this book because it makes people who are often absent from written histories feel vital and real–it introduces us to Black people who have agency in shaping their own lives and places, and specifically, to brilliant Black women who are almost invisible in the archive. 

I could imagine talking with these people, seeing the signs they saw, hearing the smells they smelled, and walking their streets; the book allowed me to see how Black people shaped their place–and shaped the place Brooklyn would become–and how this making of the place was really making the arguments for freedom. What else could you want?