Books like Hurricane Season

This comprehensive nonfiction book takes on a century-long analysis of the root causes of drug distribution in Mexico, ranging from the mass migration of Chinese people and the importation of poppies to the establishment of opium dens along the US-Mexico border, from the medicinal uses of healers and farmers to the rise of kingpins and drug-lords.

This book also maps the issue of drug consumption in the United States of America and the inherent violence it causes south of its border with the rise of cartels that cause the current sadistic state of violence in Mexico. This book is a historical journey that marks the spiraling, out-of-control story of drugs in Mexico.

This novel explores one of the many subplots and dynamics occurring around popular culture and cartel expansion in Mexico.

Following the life of a composer and performer of narco-corridos—a musical genre that sings praises to drug lords and kingpins—, this novel delves into the peripheries of violence and the adulation of drug cartel personalities in mainstream culture while at the same time offering a glimpse at the dangers posed to artists delving into such themes.

Having a composer and musician as the central figure of the narrative makes this novel one of the most lyrical texts exploring subjects of violence.

Utilizing appropriation and real testimonies of people who have suffered the forced disappearance of their relatives as a result of cartel violence, Sara Uribe weaves together a lyrical palimpsest by combining the voices and tropes of Greek mythology and the all-too-real suffering of the Mexican present.

Antigona Gonzalez, the main subject in this book, echoes the myth of Antigone as well as the struggles of all those who search for their missing kin in Mexico, those who have gone missing at the hands of narco-violence. This book is a telling use of previously existing texts to describe a crisis of the present accurately.

This brave thriller set in Mexico follows a reporter covering the grand schemes of collusion between government officials, government institutions, police and military forces, as well as United States agencies and foreign militias involved in the Mexican drug trade and the various levels of riches it has to offer.

It paints a realistic journalistic picture of the conflict and guides us with the pace of a crime novel into the very real dangers faced by journalists throughout a Mexican social landscape of violence. 

This unlikely thriller of a book explores a seemingly bland subject: the network of interstate highways built by the Federal Government after World War II. In fact, these highways transformed American culture, not only spelling the demise of many country roads and small towns but replacing the friendly hitchhiker with the terrifying “killer on the road.” Further, the highways led to the creation of rest stops and shadowy neighborhoods that came to harbor predators, while the interstates aided the criminals’ flight. Killer on the Road keeps you on the edge of your seat, unfolding into horror, mystery, and victimization.

Rebecca and Russell Dobash had studied men's violence against their female partners for decades and were already heroes of the women's movement when they began interviewing incarcerated killers in Britain. Two fine books have resulted, one focused on men who killed women, the other on men who killed men. It is the former, especially the section on intimate partner homicide, that I find most captivating. The Dobashes skilfully blend national statistics with the self-serving testimony of their interviewees, who minimize their lethal acts as things that "happened" rather than things that they did, and apparently believe themselves to be the victims. These insights are essential.    

I have not read a book like Melissa Valentine's The Names of All the Flowers, which is a beautiful, painful, and exquisitely written narrative about her brother Junior, who was gunned down on the streets of Oakland when he was 19. "Say his name, say her name," we chant when yet another one of our brothers or sisters is killed. In this memoir, Valentine gives us not only Junior's name but an intimate look into his head, his heart, his fears, his dreams, his joy.

I’ve been blown away by the high quality in a lot of 21st-century splatterpunk/hardcore/extreme horror, but nobody’s extremes have impressed me quite like Wrath James White’s.

I love the insane magic he works with a deceptively simple premise: a young man can resurrect people who forget the circumstances of the deaths and return, but he’s a bad young man. The result is a blend of classic Gothic tropes related to a woman terrorized by a powerful man combined with just about every kind of physical violation imaginable.

I respect White’s gross-outs, but more than that, I respect the bleakness, the deep, deep horror of the premise taken so far in such a bad way.

On May 8, 1970, just days after the killing of four college students at Kent State University, construction workers in New York City violently attacked a group that had gathered to protest the Vietnam War.

Kuhn offers a riveting account of the events (dubbed the “Hardhat Riot” by some and “Workers’ Woodstock” by others), but he also situates them into a broader story of how the war and other developments of the 1960s exacerbated divisions within the Democratic Party between white, heavily unionized blue-collar workers in the urban North and an emerging class of college-educated professionals. 

Nixon successfully courted many of the blue-collar workers on the way to his landslide victory in 1972. Kuhn is no apologist for the workers, but he also avoids facile stereotypes about the white working class, some of which persist to this day.  

This book revealed a threat new to me and to many readers in a culture where mothers had to hide their daughters in shallow graves in Guerrero, Mexico, adjacent to the drug cartels in order to avoid their abduction. They often masqueraded their daughters as boys or tried to make them ugly by chopping off their hair and blackening their teeth.

I was riveted by the story of Ladydi and her friends as they sought a larger world and future they instinctively knew existed. They supported each other but were constantly at risk and challenged by the dangerous drug culture and misogynistic environment they were born into.

Prayers for the Stolen is filled with vignettes and images that stayed with me, written in Jennifer’s poetic prose—she is also a poet. With imagination, narrative drive, and suspense, it explores the struggle and limited triumph of some of the women and reflects… show more.