100 Books Like Down to a Sunless Sea

It was the comic book titles of HG Wells early science fiction books which drew me in as a teenager, including this, his most famous. You never had to guess what it was about. And I was never disappointed. They took me into a different world.

What I always liked about HG Wells was his attention to detail and his attempts to provide a rational scientific explanation for the events which occurred in those books.

Future-facing at the time of its publication in 1957, On the Beach isn’t really war fiction in the literal sense, because the fictional war around which it is built is already over.

Set in 1963 Australia, it details the life-affirming but grim experiences of a cast of characters including the crew of a US Navy submarine who are all facing inevitable and impending death from the aftereffects of massive nuclear war that has extinguished all life in the northern hemisphere.

The LA Times described it as "timely and ironic... an indelibly sad ending that leaves you tearful and disturbed," and The Economist called it "still incredibly moving after nearly half a century.” I’d call it a compelling and thought-provoking cautionary tale, and a ride you only want to go on via your imagination.

As much as I enjoy the imagery and metaphors associated with large-scale devastation, I also like to imagine how we mere mortals could survive what we have caused. This author takes the time to depict a very humane post-apocalyptic struggle in ways that I still admire. Once you get past the pain and suffering, there’s a lot of hope and optimism on these pages.

I like a good apocalypse just as much as the next reader. As much as I have liked the genre, I haven’t always been as cognizant of the human cost as I think I should be. This author will take you on a journey that is outwardly familiar. His examination and portrayal of what it means to be truly alone in a ravaged world were enough to tear my heart out when I first read it in college. Even when the living do have a good reason to envy the dead, they can still work through their pain to create a future for themselves. That’s a grain of truth I try to put into everything I do.

I first read The Explorers when I was a child. I delighted in it then and still do. Its style got to me first. A real literary style. Some of the stories are hard-boiled, Raymond Chandler in space. Some poetic. But so much better than most clunky SF. And also, so unconventional This is not Azimov. Rather than space opera, we get a scientist drunk, bemoaning his “contributions” to space flight. Instead of wondrous inventions, we get cheesy computer art. Brainless generals celebrate nuclear war. Well-written, unusual, simultaneously funny and sad, The Explorers is a masterpiece of 50s SF.

This book takes what would seem–on the surface–to be an incredibly grim and morally gray story and frames it such that it can be read by younger audiences. I read this book when I was eleven years old, and it truly laid the groundwork for my current love of dystopian sci-fi.

The premise is unique, the characters have complex motivations, and the stakes are endlessly high–after all, humanity was in a bad enough position that it was willing to drop a hundred teenagers on an irradiated planet. In my opinion, such a difficult decision casts a very realistic light on the characters, as their actions could very well happen in the material world. It’s just a matter of how desperate mankind gets.

Nuclear weapons are not just dangerous if they are used in a nuclear war. Their development, testing, production, deployment, and decommissioning are all harmful to the planet. My favourite thing about this book is how this fact is explored and examined at the global and local levels.

With a geographer’s attention to the specifics of space and place, Alexis-Martin takes us on a journey around the world and through history that illuminates how all parts of the nuclear weapon production cycle have harmed people whose stories we often don’t hear. From indigenous communities displaced by nuclear weapons production facilities to the British veterans who were used as lab rats and exposed to nuclear tests by the state, this book uncovers the often hidden history of nuclear weapons.

I really enjoyed this, especially as Alexis-Martin then reflects on how we can prevent nuclear war in the future.

One of my favourite things about this book is the clarity with which the authors—a former US Secretary of Defense and a leading nuclear policy advisor—diagnose what’s wrong with American nuclear weapons policy and propose solutions that would make us all safer.

I loved how the book is both a great public education resource (here’s what’s wrong with US nuclear policy) and a call to arms (here’s what you can do to make it better!). I also loved how the book makes it clear that the US approach to achieving national security through increasing reliance on nuclear weapons, in fact, makes the US less secure.

Jacobsen’s terrifying account of how rapidly global nuclear destruction can happen is why I’ve already recommended it to many colleagues and friends. It reminded me of Jonathon Schell’s The Fate of the Earth that was one of the factors in my decision to join the Bethlehem Peace Pilgrimage.

By describing the interlocking U.S. launch detection, command and control, and delivery systems, Nuclear War provides readers with a realistic series of events that demonstrate the dangers of maintaining nuclear arsenals. Even though I have read scores of books regarding nuclear weapons over the last 45 years, this book gave me new insights and renewed my sense of urgency to achieve a world without these destructive weapons.

Connolly’s book traces recent historical shifts in artists’ cinema via a number of overlapping trends; multi-screen video projections in galleries, work that ‘references an earlier event through documentation, re-enactment or remaking’ and that which explores the relationship between cinema, screen architecture, and the museum or gallery space. The implications of these trends; the mobile as opposed to seated spectator or the making of work designed to run as continuous short loops, is considered via detailed discussion of works by a small number of key artists. Connolly, unusually and refreshingly, is not afraid to criticise, as in her discussion of Douglas Gordon and Philippe Parreno’s film Zidane.