78 Books Like Paco's Story

As a Vietnam veteran, teacher of war literature, and writer, I am disappointed that I never interviewed Michael Herr. I can only imagine what such an encounter might have been like with this larger-than-life figure, at least the persona (adrenaline junky, reporter on drugs) found in this fragmented collection of war reportage. With its New Journalistic style and content, the sensory-overload writing might be best described as a collection of literary illumination rounds (their underlying message—war is hell and addictive). As a freelance journalist, Herr arrived in Vietnam wanting to reveal the large ugly truths about the war, which he succeeds in doing, but I find the soldiers’ personal war stories more gripping and truthful. For me and even Herr, the real surprise is that this book ultimately chronicles the author’s own war story of innocence lost: the anti-war reporter becomes just as addicted to war as some of his… show more.

This is the first Vietnam War book I read. For almost ten years I remained silent about my military service—many coworkers did not know I had served, let alone two tours and wounded in action. Caputo’s voice and sense of loss and waste and rage touched so close to my feelings. His gift of words made me live again the countless hours of boredom punctuated by moments of terror—for me, ambushes, mines, incoming artillery, and mortar rounds. Twenty years in the future, when I began writing my stories, I read Caputo’s book again because I hoped to emulate his sense of angst.

How does one capture and transmit what the mixture of boredom and abject terror that is often a soldier’s life does to the psyche most effectively?

I had read a number of fictionalized reportages and Slaughterhouse-Five by Vonnegut, which added science fiction. Still, it wasn’t until I powered through this book that I felt I could know how difficult it is for young men to try and make sense of it. The book was a puzzle with pieces that were hard to place next to each other into a coherent picture, and that felt to me like what Vietnam did to those in my generation who fought there.

Awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, this collection of short stories draws upon Butler’s fluency in the Vietnamese language, his experiences as an Army intelligence specialist living in Saigon during the war, and later his extensive contacts with Vietnamese communities in and near New Orleans, Louisiana. These stories are Vietnamese aftermath tales of émigrés adjusting to post-war life in America and yearning to retain their individual and cultural identities—a quest Butler described “as a pursuit of self” in our 2005 interview. For me, this book illuminates the culture, history, and communities that I, and most American soldiers, never attempted to know when we were in Vietnam and tended to ignore once Vietnamese resettled in the U.S. This book reaffirms for me that despite our many differences, we are all linked by the joys, sorrows, and hopes of our universal human condition. 

Shames’s fiction should be better known.

This book wasn’t what I expected, given its set-up in a small west Texas town filled with testosterone-laced popular imagery of today—a fundamentalist cult smelling of illicit sex, anti-feminism, and gun show economics; bored adults insanely consumed by high-school football rivalries; a chain-rattling motorcycle crowd; and far too many sour, flag-waving vets.

Take your pick about important themes to follow in this well-crafted cozy featuring Sam Craddock. Sam is asked to stand in as policeman while the one local cop dries out. He’s cranky, flawed but likable, persistent, competent.

The puzzle mysteries are tricky enough to be interesting, no overwhelming thriller-type fight scenes or chases. I thoroughly enjoyed this surprisingly gentle read. 

I loved this book because it fearlessly profiles a certain type of hypocrisy in our culture through the experiences of Billy Lynn and his fellow soldiers of the Bravo Squad. They’re reluctant war heroes on an unwanted victory tour stop at a Dallas Cowboys game. I identified with Billy as an everyman with a challenging background. I felt it was a powerful juxtaposition of the price we ask some to pay to support our way of life that is cluttered with banality.

I could feel his pain and grief over the losses he’s experienced, and I wanted him to be cared for with empathy and understanding. Instead, I was repulsed by what our culture has to offer; using Billy and his fellow soldiers as props to celebrate ourselves.

Small-town Texas cowboys with some Little Red Riding Hood mixed in? Yep. So good! The book starts off with steam, then moves on to laughs, but the real story is in the love. Travis and Maggie don’t feel it at first, and Travis has his nephew to think about when he comes home to his family’s ranch to provide a home for Henry, but times are hard. Travis tries to pick up work, but stubborn Maggie is always in his way. Big Verde, Texas is a small bluebell town filled with the loveliest secondary characters since Jan Karon’s At Home in Mitford. A menagerie of quirky side characters rounds this read out perfectly.

I have a paperback copy of the original edition of this book that is tattered beyond belief—from multiple readings.

The hero is scarred inside and out and doesn’t expect love or anything soft to enter in his life. Doing a favor for his brother, escorting his brother's bride through the Western wilderness, he is dismayed to find himself falling for her. Another book I can read in a blink and feel every emotion with both angst and joy. This book has long been a favorite.

I’ve been hearing about Cynthia Ann Parker since I was a child growing up in the part of northern Texas once ruled by her Comanche captors–and her Comanche compatriots! Captured as a child by Comanche raiders at the Parker family’s frontier compound at the time of the Texas Revolution, Cynthia Ann fully became a Comanche. She married a warrior, Peta Nocona, and together they had a son, “Quanah Parker,” who eventually became the most famous “Indian” in America.

I was amazed by the authors’ ability to penetrate the myths surrounding Cynthia’s recapture by Texas Rangers. Speaking virtually no English, she was desperate to return with her infant daughter to her Comanche family, but both of them died in captivity, being held now as sad, unwilling captives of the Texans.

I’ve never seen a man’s life told with such clarity and skill as Caro lays out LBJ’s journey. I was in awe of how clear-eyed Caro was about what his story is about: not the facts and dates of LBJ’s life, but what Caro saw in LBJ’s life about ambition, politics, and the powers that shape society.

Caro never for a second loses sight of the story he is telling, and what it is truly about: power, how to get it, and how to yield it. Caro’s adherence to the themes he found in LBJ’s story is inspiring—and completely informed how I approach storytelling.