100 Books Like Do Not Say We Have Nothing

I read this book while working on my own because Horwitz is a master of weaving a story with many characters about a complicated piece of the past. He provides ample detail about the lengths to which reenactors will go for their performances—and some of the methods are outright gross.

But I love that even when Horwitz is grappling with ways that modern interpretations can obscure the actual past, he never resorts to mockery when talking about his subjects. He might disagree with their perspective about the Civil War, but he listens and reports what they tell him. I recommend this for anyone trying to understand how the Civil War still plays such a prominent role in our world nearly two centuries later. 

What I appreciate most about David Mitchell’s novel is how he grounds the history in scenes full of well-developed characters. So, for example, we don’t begin the novel with a long note about the historical period or the lineage of the ruling class, but rather with the urgency of childbirth gone wrong in the house of a concubine in Nagasaki in 1799.

It’s from this rootedness in the sense-based that we move into a wider exploration of both geopolitics and the magical, which I absolutely fell in love with—this sense that there is an element of the supernatural at play in this otherwise very realistic historical world.

This heartwarming, multigenerational drama about the Korean community in Japan swept me into another time and place. Born and raised in a poor fishing village in Japanese-occupied Korea, Sunja makes an impulsive decision in the pursuit of love that transforms the trajectory of her life.

Thoughtful, resilient, and fiercely independent, Sunja was a relatable character whom I desperately wanted to see thrive. I felt her heartache when she left her beloved Korea and shared her indignation at the discrimination she and her family experienced in Japan. Expertly crafted and keenly observed, Pachinko shows us how history and politics shape the lives of ordinary people, often for generations to come. 

I haven’t recovered yet from the way Hartman recovers the lives of young Black women through historical photographs. The images were made to rob these women of their individuality, make them fit “types,” letting them say Nothing about themselves.

But Hartman writes like she’s talking to them, and they’re wonderful. She messes with categories used by authorities who thought they “knew” these women by their transgressions. I was utterly transfixed by how she imagined these women’s lives and loves in the ordinary stairways and back alleys they called home.

The photos are gorgeous. You could talk about them for days and still have more to think about—like how when it comes to women being framed for doing something wrong, maybe Nothing has changed.

Smith offers an up-close-and-personal tour of how the history of slavery has been preserved in various corners of the Earth. From Monticello Plantation in Virginia to the House of Slaves in Gorée Island (Senegal), I was taken on an eye-opening, albeit sometimes cringeworthy, journey through modern-day perceptions of a haunted past.

For me, this retelling of history is most fascinating. It forces the reader to reckon with the idea that truth isn’t just in the eye of the beholder but in the mouth of the teller. How can we find truth in history if it is being told in so many ways? I weirdly enjoyed wrestling with it as I ventured through the places Smith visited as if his storytelling was escorting me.

What does it mean to enslave another human being? Sometimes a novel is the only way for me to get at the emotional heart of a horrible truth. That’s why I loved this book–an imaginary region of Virginia before the Civil War introduced me to Henry Townsend, a freed Black man who owned an entire plantation of other Black men, women, and children.

I couldn’t stop thinking of Moses, Augustus, Celeste, and all of the people who fought their way through to, finally, emancipation. Some people compare Edward P. Jones’ work to Faulkner's in the way he creates a complete and completely convincing world.

This is a novel that I suspected I was falling into as much as reading—that is, I felt utterly and, at times, uncomfortably immersed in Murakami’s story universe.

I love the blending of contemporary realism in the novel (our protagonist’s day-to-day life) with the historical and the way the Japanese military’s atrocities in Manchuria in the 30s haunt the recognizably contemporary world so that even a man sitting at the bottom of a well contemplating existence and history feels like an acceptable and dreamlike weirdness.

I’m completely taken with such a strange and affecting representation of lesser-known histories and the ghosts such events leave us with.

To portray the title character in Bizet’s Carmen is only one of the many transformations American orphan Lilliet Berne’s life requires, both on and offstage, as she ascends to opera stardom in late 19th century Paris. In this immersive novel, the clothes are as richly described as the music, and the music is described with not only sincere emotion but attention to realities and absurdities: Bizet’s early death leads to greatly improved ticket sales, for example. In Chee’s haunting first novel Edinburgh, he made choral music shimmer with both beauty and horror. The Queen of the Night is very different in setting, time, and sweeping sense of adventure, but shares Chee’s ability to movingly explore acts of survival and reinvention.

This novel made me feel like a hungry young rock star. That’s no small accomplishment (let alone via such electric prose), but really, it didn’t feel like fiction. It felt like an intimate docudrama of a world-conquering British rock band whose music, somehow, magically, I already knew and loved.

That’s really what astounded me the most: the music and the musical protagonists were incredibly real. As a story of the rock-and-roll life, I think it’s up there with all the great memoirs, like Keith Richards’s Life. (Disclaimer: this is absolutely a standalone novel, but if you’ve read Mitchell’s earlier novels, namely Cloud Atlas and The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, prepare for some astonishing easter eggs and callbacks.)

I’m so impressed by the sense of closeness, the claustrophobic setting, and the relationships Endo evokes in this novel.

The intensely atmospheric language perfectly matches the storyline, which involves Portuguese Jesuit priests arriving in seventeenth-century Japan, where they are martyred in devastatingly cruel and grotesque ways. But that’s not to say there isn’t beauty in the novel, either.

I found joy in the historical details, setting, and the rendering of individual lives—the characters’ anguish and existential crises speaking to me through imagined centuries and deft translation.