Books like Eager — picked by fans

Farley Mowat once declared: “I never let facts get in the way of a good story.” I have read Never Cry Wolf as fiction many times, even though its author pretended it was factual. As a writer interested in Canada’s north, Mowat’s universe is an obvious choice for me. The inclusion of Inuit characters is also quite appealing. In this book, a naturalist studies Arctic wolves in a makeshift camp in northern Manitoba and deals with the ridiculous expectations of the bureaucrats who sent him out there to fend for himself. He discovers that contrary to public opinion, wolves are not responsible for the decimation of caribou herds, humans are. Some elements are exaggerated for comic effect, and as one of Canada’s best storytellers, Mowat delivers on laughs. 

The grime and stench of crowded, electric 1850s London permeates the pages of this book. I loved the immersion mixed with a history of urbanism and the problems unique to places where people live crammed together, sharing resources and, unfortunately, diseases.

I’d read about the cholera outbreak in London before, which occurred at a time before doctors understood germ theory. Johnson’s account gripped me as we follow early epidemiologist John Snow through his revolutionary investigation into the cause of the outbreak. This book tought me key medical and science history that I needed to understand as I embarked on my own book about a deadly, mysterious disease outbreak.

How can you not already love these underwater giants? But I didn’t know much about them before reading Gigg’s love letter to our undersea cousins. They live by breathing air and giving birth like we do, but most of their lives takes place in a hidden, watery world.

The horror our species inflicted on whales during commercial whaling became more repulsive as Giggs uncovered the layers of whales’ complexity and sociality. I learned that arthritis sufferers in the nineteenth century would bathe in holes cut into whale carcasses for their curative powers. I also tried to imagine an animal with blood vessels big enough for a child to crawl through and a heartbeat that can be heard through the water for over a mile. 

During research for my book, I visited manmade wetlands in south Florida, built to filter farm runoff from the water before it flows into Everglades National Park. These constructed wetlands are thick with alligators, spoonbills, storks, hawks, and other wildlife—but they’re just an echo of the surviving Glades. Now among the most cherished natural areas on Earth, in the settlement era the Everglades was written off as wasted space. Early in the 20th century the northern half of the Everglades was drained and turned into sugar fields. Today polluted runoff from those farms threatens the surviving remnants of the Everglades ecosystem. 

Grunwald’s book shows the human quirks and greed that drove the Everglades’ destruction, and that sometimes get in the way of its restoration.

We are such a visual species that it is easy to forget how the other senses contribute to the colorful world we share. Moore’s elegant account of the sounds that rumple the aether through which we move opened my eyes (and especially my ears).

Moore is known for her ability to wrap beautiful words around important concepts. Like me, she is trained as a philosopher. Her blend of poetry and insightfulness is fully displayed in this rare homily for nature’s sounds.

Moore worries about their loss as the noise of industry drowns out nature’s own voice. But I would read a chapter before bed each day and drift off to sleep accompanied by lullabies sung by the remarkable kin who share our world.   

While researching my book, I learned about the sewers of Victorian London. The hideous load of pollution they carried stank unbearably, caused epidemics, and later inspired the invention of modern sewage treatment. This mystery novel takes us into the dank hell of those sewers. A fictional war veteran named William May roams this subterranean world as a surveyor for engineer Joseph Bazalgette, a real-life figure responsible for redesigning London’s sewer system and saving thousands of lives. Reading this novel is as close as one can get to that time and place.

Whenever I fly across country, I love looking out the window of the plane to watch how water has sculpted the landscape below—especially in undeveloped expanses, where I often see dozens of squiggles from rivers that have changed course.

Erica Gies’s fascinating book gave me an expanded view of the relationship between water and land, even in our modern cities, and introduced me to people who are figuring out new ways of living respectfully with this mighty and essential force.

Wildlife recoveries in my native Britain are rare. It’s one of the most nature-depleted countries in Europe. But boar are back, tearing up the forest floor, spooking dog walkers, and adding the sort of vibrancy to a landscape that only a wild mammal can provide.

I loved hearing how the English have been shaken from their cultural slumbers by a smart, social, and tough animal. This book makes you think about the barriers to change and the pioneers leading the way. The writing is beautiful. I turned down dozens of pages to return later to replay the music of Lyons’ sentences.

Every book should teach you a few new words. This one certainly did. “Wild boar,” says Lyons, “seem to move through the forest with the force of a river in constant spate.” 

I knew, like most people, that pet dogs are descended from wild wolves. But when do you get to see this natural history play out in front of your eyes?

Romeo, a wild wolf that spent winters on a frozen lake at the foot of the Mendenhall Glacier, gave the skiers and dog-walkers of Juneau, Alaska, a lesson in the intelligence of our wild brethren. I marveled at Romeo’s gentle playfulness. I admired the wisdom that prevented him from getting too close to people, preferring to play with the pooches that people let off their leashes.

Jans’ book reveals how authorities struggled to know what to do with this animal that moved so easily back and forth between the wild and the civilized. Romeo’s end provides plenty of reason for reflection.

When I was a kid, I wanted to rescue animals. I remember taking crabs home from the beach in milk cartons. Sadly, they didn’t make it – nor did they need rescuing in the first place. 12-year-old Madi Lewis is a savvier rescuer, an “animal whisperer” trained by her late grandmother, an animal rehabber, to keep careful records and do basic caretaking. But Madi’s parents have made it clear: no more foster animals. When Madi and her friends find two orphaned beaver kits in a dam, she has to keep it a secret – hard to do as they uncover a local conspiracy to eliminate beavers at Lake Wild. This fast-paced eco-mystery teaches a lot about conservation, ethics, and, of course, beavers! I love Madi as a young Jane Goodall type, too.