100 Books Like CivilWarLand in Bad Decline

This is a classic oral history of jobs in what older people call “the good old days.”  It is told from the perspective of the individuals doing the jobs they were talking about, and it reveals how interesting their day-to-day experience is.

The reminder for today, especially in our remote workplaces, is how important relationships with people at work are to our happiness and well-being. It’s also a reminder of how important it is for people to have some control over what they do and to feel invested in their work.

People want to do things well and take pride in what they do. We forget all this when we think of workers as widgets to be optimized. 

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.

The atmosphere and voice created by Robinson in this timeless and widely beloved novel, which is potent in a way that’s difficult to quantify, has endured in my memory since I first read it as a teenager. In prose rich with imagery and allusion, narrator Ruth tells the story of how she and her sister, Lucille—orphaned after their mother’s suicide—came to be cared for by their aunt, Sylvie, an eccentric drifter, who moves into their rural Idaho home and alters the tenor of their lives.

This is written with the precision of poetry, containing such sentences as, “When she had been married a little while, she concluded that love was half a longing of a kind that possession did nothing to mitigate.” A novel to re-read and savor.

Nothing much seems to happen in this remarkable novella, which describes a single lunch break of a man at work.

Actually, though, the reader gets to eavesdrop on the man’s ruminations about everyday things—shoelaces, bathroom blow dryers, vending machines, office supplies, and so much more.

These ruminations are practically Proustian; they start with something ordinary (a milk carton), followed by a digression (memories of having milk delivered to his home), interrupted by another digression (about his sister’s milk allergy), and veering into philosophical territory (pondering the nature of all childhood memories).

Reading this novella is both exhausting and exhilarating. It’s like wandering haphazardly through a maze of ideas and memories. Luckily, the novella is short enough that the reader never grows bored or tired.

One early summer afternoon, the body of a young woman is dredged from the mud of Lake Vättern, and Detective Inspector Martin Beck of the Swedish National Police is assigned to the case. Who was she? Who killed her? These questions remain unanswered for months and months (and months). Catching a killer, it seems, is a slog, and the routines of police work are captured here in all their tedium. And this is exactly why I love this book, as it compellingly dramatizes (to quote from Henning Mankell’s introduction) “the fundamental virtue of the police: patience.” There’s a heroism to these steadfast and rumpled men, and something thrilling about their dogged, often frustrating, yet ultimately successful pursuit of the truth.

During Italy’s post-WWII economic boom of the ‘50s, in an anonymous northern Italian city, an unskilled laborer named Marcovaldo struggles to support his wife and five children (or seven, or four—the number changes). In twenty tightly-plotted tales, we observe him stealing a trout, stealing a rabbit, getting lost in the fog, shoveling sidewalks, trying to fall asleep, trying to stay warm in the winter. Each “adventure” complicates absurdly, and some are more dire than others. Though on the brink of poverty, Marcovaldo hangs on, strives and fails, and strives anew, never losing his naive sense that things will turn out fine. The best comic writing is always tinged with the tragic, making you laugh and making you feel, and Calvino is a master.

What one expects to happen, in the context of a story, is a wholly unacceptable outcome… save one does not feel the story is obligated to resound with consciousness of mortality. Consciousness of mortality is not cruel in and of itself; the one who causes it to resound in the form of a story, however, might be. Cruel, that is.

This, I think, is a very cruel book. But its cruelty is the cruelty of an honest physician met with a diseased patient. His unflinching diagnosis of the disease and the difficult (painful) operations it necessitates… are simply what remaining alive calls for. The alternative, that is, is always the same thing: brief (however apparently eternal) dementia.   

This book takes you on a rollercoaster through contemporary lives and dilemmas, moving and inspiring you on the way.

From a young woman teacher with a big alcohol problem and a mess of a relationship through a lonely middle-aged male whose use of sex workers damages his ability to relate to regular women, this is a no-holds-barred exploration of how we live now.

Moshfegh shows us the pain, the humour, the sorrow, and the potential joy, in beautifully written prose with a real edge to it.

I recommend this book because, to me, it is unique–I’ve never read a book like it. It’s an interesting plot, end-of-the-world stuff, with some very unlikeable, low-life characters. It’s set in a very dark version of London that I know and love, in a pub environment similar to the one that I grew up in.

There is murder on the cards throughout the story, but the author still manages to squeeze in some humor. It’s just a different style of writing that I think people should give a try.

My wife and I and half of our friends have had the same experience reading this book, namely, bursting into tears while reading it on the subway. About half the stories in this collection have endings that are devastating/ecstatic gut punches, and the reason is that they are explorations of disgrace. Curtis is hilarious, but the everyday ostracizations that befall the young women in this book would tear you apart even if they weren’t funny.