11 Books Like The Ballad of Buster Scruggs

I was about thirteen years old when I picked up Charles Portis’ book, and from the very first line, I wanted to be Mattie Ross. The novel was the first Western I remember reading and remains imprinted on my brain as a first to mash up the traditional themes of the righteous Code of the West and the hopelessness of a world awash in lawlessness and violence, all the while eliciting whoops of laughter.

Mattie was the first female protagonist I remember encountering with pluck and impertinence to match the infamous U.S. Marshal Rooster Cogburn and inspire my own.

This remains one of the most haunting novels I have ever read. I cannot shake the character of Judge Holden, a formidable man both physically and intellectually, who deploys his insidious intellect to justify acts of abject violence seemingly only for the sake of violence itself. I was mesmerized by a world where “all covenants were brittle.” This was no straight-up Western as I had expected. It was something more.

McCarthy pushed the boundaries of the classic Western by challenging the notion that good will ultimately overcome evil and the hero will save the day. There was no hero here, and the day was truly lost to forces beyond the characters’ control, hallmarks of the Southern Gothic tradition. I was hooked on this curious blend of genres!

When I cracked the spine on Patrick deWitt’s book, I knew I was in for a treat. Contract killers, endless bloodshed, and belly laughs? How could you go wrong? The novel is technically a Western, but represents a revisionist and darkly comedic pivot in the genre, following two brothers, Eli and Charlie Sisters, from Oregon to San Francisco during the Gold Rush on their quest to murder a man called Hermann Kermit Warm, accused of stealing from their client.

One brother, Eli, questions his purpose in this world, while Charlie cannot satiate his blood lust, all with deadpan humor, which left me thinking hard about the nature of violence and man’s capacity for change, and a little worried about my own dark sense of humor.

I have always loved gritty mysteries and Joe. R. Lansdale’s book did not disappoint. I was first pulled in by the curious and clipped cadence of the voice of the narrator, an older Harry Collins recalling a brutal murder from his youth. You could almost hear Harry’s voice jump off the page.

I was also particularly drawn to the finely crafted setting on the rugged Texas frontier, dripping with eerie foreboding. The land is as rotten as the characters who inhabit the narrative. Add in an East Texas setting and the bleak and desperate themes of racism at the turn of the 20th century, and you have a compelling read that is hard to put down. 

The previous four books on my list have been pretty dark. “Heavy,” I guess, is relative. I find a lot of humor in them and, ultimately, that’s why I either have re-read them or plan to. This one isn’t as heavy on the violence as the previous ones. Often cited as a good example of dry British humor, written by a former bus driver, it’s the story of two fence-builders who travel the English and Scottish countryside in a caravan erecting fences. However, it seems like every time they’re on a job, they end up accidentally murdering someone. Rather than getting bogged down by things like remorse or guilt, they are much more interested in covering it up and saving their backs. One of them is obsessed with heavy metal and his hair. It’s a very weird and satisfying book.

This book continues to astound me. Flann O’Brien puts together such a surreal set of circumstances for his unnamed narrator that the book is hard to put down.

O’Brien doesn’t strike me as the Hunter Thompson type; this book made me wonder what they were brewing into the whiskey on the Emerald Isle. The improbability of the narrator’s criminal activity and the law enforcement response often seems like a fever dream, albeit a very entertaining one. Even though I now know the M. Knight Shyamalan twist, I still can re-read this book, thinking, “What’s next? What’s next?”

This is my only non-fiction pick, but it reads a little like a gripping work of fiction except that I had to keep pinching myself to remember it really happened. The author is writing about her experience as a professional violinist in a "fake" orchestra. It is a wonderfully nuanced look at the gray area between "fake" and "real", which is devastatingly pertinent to our times. It challenges us to consider if we can actually always tell the difference and if the difference is really clear-cut at all. The reason I'm including it in the list is that the main protagonist, the author, is a strong woman who is determined to make her own way. And there is one section I found particularly satisfying, in which (and I don't think this will give too much away) she refuses to include any romance in the book. She declines to write of… show more.

Detective CW Sughrue was working the topless bar scene well before Jack Reacher wandered across the literary landscape. But unlike Reacher, Sughrue carries the sins of mankind on his own shoulders, just as likely to solve a crime as to curl up in a cheap motel with a bottle of whisky. 

He begins the book looking for a trouble author (is there any other kind?), but once he finds him, things get really messy…

The first time I saw a Coen Brothers’ movie I felt like I was already familiar with their style. It’s probably because I had already read Crumley’s novels with their existential sadness and brutal violence just-barely-buoyed by clever plotting and pitch-black humor.

As one of Norway’s top recruitment specialists, Roger Brown views himself as a ‘headhunter’ extraordinaire. The fact that he moonlights as an art thief, is simply a way of dealing with his own inadequacies and his reckless spending habits. Unfortunately, his next heist goes horribly wrong. The story unfolds evenly and cleverly, with blunt bursts of murder and mayhem around every corner.

What makes this such a fun read, is the duplicitous nature of the protagonist. The absurdity of his circumstances is directly caused by his inability to refrain from committing other criminal acts. This internal struggle is brilliantly depicted throughout and creates a palpable tension for readers.

We had to go back to the 1952 book that essentially invented this format. Lillian Ross was a writer on staff at The New Yorker when she received the opportunity to be a fly on the wall during the production of The Red Badge of Courage (1951), writer/director John Huston’s adaptation of Stephen Crane’s novel of the American Civil War.

She tracked the film from start to finish, explaining how the two-hour version that Huston regarded as his best work became a sixty-nine-minute afterthought. Ross’s depiction of MGM mogul Louis B. Mayer clearly influenced the studio kingpin in one of our favorite movies about movies, the Coen Brothers’ brilliant Barton Fink (1991).