Books like Cutter and Bone — picked by fans

I remember summers growing up when we were out of the house seeking freedom from parents as we streamed toward our teenage years, so I can identify with this story’s start. We’d follow deer trails through brush and trees to spots up in the hills we’d claimed as our own. This book begins with a prologue made vivid with three children and Tana French’s gorgeous prose.

The children go up and over a rock wall and into “A summer full-throated and extravagant in a hot pure silk skin blue…your tongue tasting of chewed blades of long grass, your own clean sweat…” “…long slow twilight and mothers silhouetted in doorways…” and the haunted last sentence, “These children will not be coming of age, this or any other summer.”

I’ve long been a fan of James Lee Burke’s novels. His lyrical and likely heartfelt descriptions of Louisiana’s land, water, and people offset and illuminate the contrasting violence. Burke acknowledges the darkness in humanity and the possibility of redemption.

Into that mix goes Dave Robicheaux, the protagonist, who had his own ups and downs. Robicheaux can read between the lines and keeps a pretty clear eye on the truth. Here’s the opening sentence of this book, Robicheaux narrating in his own way:

“Years ago, in state documents, Vachel Carmouche was always referred to as the electrician, never the executioner.”

We all make choices we later have to live with. Back from war and trained as an Army ranger, Quinn Colson is the sheriff now in Tibbehah, Mississippi, and finds himself hunting an old high school friend turned arms dealer. When you open this book, it’s already flowing, a feel of which I love. It’s as if you’re not watching; you’re already in the boat and can hear the roar of the coming rapids. Colson is in motion. He’s on the hunt. Here’s the way the novel starts,                      

“A couple of roustabouts had been asking about guns at the Tibbehah County fair, but by the time the word had gotten back to Donnie Varner, they’d long since packed up their Ferris wheel, corn dog stands and shit, and boogied down the highway.”

I don’t know of anyone else who so captures time, place, and the idiosyncratic language of the moment that we tend to shake our heads at years later but is exactly right at the time. Winslow is a magician with the nuances.

Here’s how the novel opens in Laguna Beach, California. "Is what O is thinking as she sits between Chon and Ben on a bench at Main Beach and picks out potential mates for them. "That one?" she asks, pointing at a classic BB (Basically Baywatch) strolling down the Boardwalk." "Chon shakes his head." And further down, "O was made for sunshine.' "California girl."

I live in California. I grew up here. Winslow captures the moment. Future historians should read him.

I love these passionate and powerful poems by a former Navy SEAL who served in Vietnam.

Hood uses humor, wit, and an attention to the world—both in combat and back home—that’s unlike much “war” poetry out there. He takes us into what he calls “the dark of the word” and brings us out to the light.

This work is thorough and informative on the US invasion and defeat but unlike many books on the war also provides extensive discussion of Vietnam’s long history, which dates back more than two millennia. It covers Vietnam’s contentious relations with China and France.

In a rescue-gone-wrong, Reeder’s chopper went down, landing on its side and leaving the pilot frantically attempting to disentangle himself from the safety harness to escape the burning craft. Years later, after relaying this story to a large audience, Reeder was told by a fellow veteran that he had witnessed the incident and had Reeder in his gunsight, intending to save him from burning to death. The would-be shooter had looked away an instant, and when ready to fire, found Reeder gone. Reeder managed to evade the enemy for a time but was eventually captured and subjected to unfathomable cruelty and deprivation.

Few books capture such a down-to-earth, colloquial, and plainspoken voice—Casey’s book won the Yale Younger Series, and one can see why.

These poems seem elusively simple on the surface, as if a young soldier is just speaking to you at a bar or on a street corner; however, they capture, overall, a cacophony of voices that probe the depths of war, soldiering, humanity, and memory.

Micus’s poetry awed me with its beauty and precision of language. Because he published this book long after Vietnam, many of the poems confront that long “after” which comes with war: purpose, the search for community, PTSD and suicide, and moral injury.

I find myself going back to many of these poems to experience his remarkable voice.

Twenty chapters and 732 pages, not including the Preface, Acknowledgements, Introduction, and Chronology, of the history of the Vietnam War. From the Preface, you are thrown into a photograph-rich hardback book that covers the beginnings of what lured the French to Indochina—trade, to the final surrender in April 1975. Gritty, sometimes horrifying black and white pictures jump out at you from the pages. There are over 2,000 photographs and maps inside the book. It is truly the book for anyone interested in the Vietnam War.