100 Books Like Four Treasures of the Sky

I love this book because of the strange and wonderful 10-year-old female protagonist, a white girl who is “rescued” from Kiowa captivity on the Texas frontier in 1870, a time of Indian raids and pervasive anarchy.

This girl was assimilated into her Indian family and considers her “rescue” a kidnapping; she remembers almost nothing of her family of origin. She is icy-veined, fearless, and creatively violent. The scene where she improvises ammunition from hundreds of dimes (yes, coins) blew my mind.

From this book, I learned about how whites (especially children) who were captured by Indians quickly abandoned their former lives and usually did not want to return if given the opportunity. The language is spare, tough, and beautiful. I did not want this book to end.

Hernán Díaz’s first novel, In the Distance, was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. The book is gorgeously written and meticulously researched. The West’s huge, startling landscapes loom on every page. But the real genius here is the novel’s “reverse epic” structure—how Díaz takes a young Swedish immigrant who gets off his ship at the wrong port (San Francisco) and sends him traveling east, against the migrant tides, in search of his brother. The journey doesn’t go as planned. Håkan makes friends and stymies enemies. Stereotypes warp and tumble as Håkan (and the reader) are forever transformed. The descriptions of California gold fields, science expeditions, questing Mormons, and other frontier communities delight and confound. You’ll never cross a Western desert the same way again.

Annie Proulx is a genius with character, and she’s obsessed with how hard humans work to uphold their myths of identity and achievement even when the odds are stacked against them. Close Range is the best of her three very good story collections about the West. It’s famous, and rightly so, for the trail-blazing tale of cowboy queerness "Brokeback Mountain". But each story is taut with observation and image. “The Mud Below,” “The Half-Skinned Steer”—there’s more than one American classic in this book. Some Westerners aren’t fans of Proulx, but I am. She doesn’t pull her punches about what it’s really like to ranch, rodeo, fantasize about retirement, or care for family in a place with no safety net, extreme weather, and no neighbors around the corner.

Fajardo-Anstine does many remarkable things in Woman of Light, but three of those things just blew me away. First, she anchors the novel in a city (Denver, 1930s). Cities are the forgotten truth of the American West, and they shouldn’t be. Second, she brings to life the “Lost Territories,” the Hispanic/Indigenous lands of southern Colorado and northern New Mexico, long-cherished homes overrun by white settlement in the 19th century. Third, she builds the entire compelling narrative around a suite of Chicana/Indigenous women—and they are the strongest, liveliest characters you’ll ever meet. They work, they love, they breathe loyalty, they seek justice. This novel is a stylish eye-opener from start to finish. And it’ll forever change what you think you know about the region.

If you’re looking to virtually experience Asian culture, I’d highly recommend this story. Not only the language used, the expressions used, but also the décor, the clothing, the food, the religious rituals, and rites. All is woven into a beautiful tapestry of life and people in Malay. The story explores the tensions between tradition and modernizing. Especially, in this case, the Western influences on the traditions and expectations of the Asian cultures. I was reminded of the tension between my mother and myself “merely” because of the age difference, not a cultural difference. Mom was 42 when I was born, 60 when I graduated high school. Expectations had most definitely shifted by then!

This book stands out because it delves deeper into popular characters that appear repeatedly in similar books. I have also enjoyed coming across new names and places not previously found. But far from being obscure names, I have encountered these in Chinese fantasy dramas.

Best of all, it includes pictures of relevant artwork and museum artifacts. I get to see these without having to travel to the four corners of the world. Giving us a sense of where we are in place and time, these displays show that throughout the long Chinese history, these legends and myths are integral to the lives of Chinese people.

This book presents mythology from my own Chinese culture—specifically, a legend from Hong Kong, where I lived from the age of seven to sixteen. We used to go on drives into the countryside on the weekends—Hong Kong still had some semblance of countryside then—and we’d often see the Amah Rock looming above us in the distance. This book tells the sad and poignant legend behind that rock. I love how it takes a tale specific to one geographical spot—one small pile of stones—and turns it into a universal story about love and loyalty. What also makes it special is that the author used to be beside me in the backseat of the car. Natasha Yim, a very well-respected children’s author, is my sister.

This is my favourite book to read to children about honesty. It illustrates why it is good to tell the truth.

Often books focus on the negative aspects of lying. My research shows that it is important to show there are positive consequences for honesty.

In this book, the Emperor gives a seed to each child in the kingdom, proclaiming, “Whoever can show me their best in a year’s time, shall succeed me to the throne!”. The boy, Ping, plants his seed but it does not grow and he has nothing but an empty pot. He truthfully presents his failure. It turns into a triumphant end when his honesty (even as others are dishonest) is rewarded.

The artwork is delicate and the text simple, but powerful.

This is a one-story picture book from another great storyteller, Eric Maddern, with fantastic illustrations by Paul Hess.

I love this clever, funny folktale and have often told it to festival and school audiences. The text is elegant and easy to read for ages 7 plus, but younger children will enjoy having it read to them. The humour in the tale is brilliantly portrayed in Paul Hess's colourful, amusing pictures. Look out for the three blind mice.

As with most folk stories, the meaning or moral of the tale is shown through clever wit and riddle-like logic. This story has a particularly surprising and satisfying end.

Writers often ask, “What if I don’t know what really happened?” Memory is so slippery that many writers trip up with self-doubt. Here’s when I turn to Maxine Hong Kingston. Unable to hunt down the facts, Kingston instead revels in speculation: Maybe this is what happened, or maybe this. She might not know why her pregnant aunt drowned herself in the family well, but she sure as heck knows the impact of her aunt’s story on her family dynamics.

This is an exceptionally smart rendering of emotional truth regardless of facts, and as such, signs a permission slip for memoir writers. We can let our DNA speak. We can speculate on the page without having to pin down the facts. Speculation can become part of the story.