Books like The Collected Works of Billy the Kid — picked by fans

To learn about the Holocaust, I read personal remembrances, eyewitness accounts, and detailed descriptions of ghettos, camps, and transports, but this graphic novel based on Spiegelman’s father captured me like none of the others. Its words tell its terrible story masterfully and its drawings fill in what words can’t say, both as his father lived it and as his son learns about it. Banning it from U.S. schools would be completely wrongheaded. It should be required reading.

Markson had early success writing traditional novels (one was even made into a movie starring Frank Sinatra) but his real body of work came after when he started writing novels that were criticized for not being novels. The first of these, This is Not a Novel, is narrated by a writer who asks whether it is possible to have a novel with no plot, no main character etc. In a form that visually resembles about 150 pages of tweets (but written before Twitter existed), Markson takes a spirited, enjoyable romp through the history of art, literature, and philosophy, with a sharp eye focused on how various creative people lived and loved, but especially on how they died. 

I loved the courage of Chris Kraus in undertaking the writing of this semi-autobiographical novel: she was neither afraid of manifesting intellect and erudition nor of expressing female sexual desire.

The experimental style of the book, alternating between nonfiction research passages and letters of infatuation, amused me. In the 1990’s, when this book first appeared, there weren’t enough novels that expressed women’s sexuality from a female perspective, so I appreciated Chris Kraus’s pioneering efforts. 

I heard about this delightful book from a friend and knew I had to read it. It is a meditation on the color blue. Each of Nelson’s “propositions” explores blue metaphorically, literally, historically, emotionally.

Reading this book I immersed myself in blue and all its facets, and through doing so I discovered the worlds of other colors, so that when I step outside, I see not only green but all greens, not only brown but all browns, and blue, of course, everywhere.

Oklahoma’s history of outlawry is as depraved as Texas’s—or any state, for that matter. In the 1930s, Texas birthed the Barrow Gang, but Bonnie & Clyde were practically Sonny & Cher compared to the Daltons, a band of criminal brothers active in Oklahoma during the latter years of the 19th century. Clavin’s story makes clear why a career in violent crime does not generally attract the brightest bulbs.

Reading the details of their invariably ill-considered escapades is like watching a YouTube video of a guy taunting a bear; you know it’s going to end in blood-soaked catastrophe, but you still can’t take your eyes away. 

This is slightly outside the boundaries of a wartime novel, as it takes place in the Old West, but it’s a fantastic book for this list, and shouldn’t be overlooked if you love this trope. Jess Harney makes a name for herself as a notorious male sharpshooter and outlaw. Her first-person voice is one of the most interesting I’ve read, and I loved how she fit in as one of the guys while never sacrificing who she was. She barely even thinks about her gender as she so naturally considers herself male. Books like this really highlight the blurred lines between cross-dressing out of necessity or desire, and I’m excited to see more authors addressing this trope with the nuance of queerness which is often part of it.

Most people with even a casual familiarity with Billy the Kid know at least three things about the young outlaw:

1) Billy was captured and found guilty of murder.

2) Before he could be hanged, he affected a spectacular escape.

3) He was hunted down and killed by Sheriff Pat Garrett. Because of the high drama of that last point (a shooting in a dark room at midnight near the bedroom of Billy’s paramour) and because of the machinations of the sheriff’s ghostwriter and publicist, Garrett has received all the glory for the Kid being brought to justice.

But there was another lawman who deserves just as much credit—Frank Stewart, lead detective for a Texas cattleman’s association. Stewart played an equal role in Billy’s capture, but his name was suppressed by those who did not want to divvy up fame. This new information is the subject of this book.

Estleman has taken a well-known story—the chase, capture, and assassination of Billy the Kid—and given it new life by exploring the occult and its effect on Sheriff Pat Garrett as he stumbles toward his destiny as the killer of the Kid.

This novel is a perfect example of how fiction can sometimes offer a richer probe into history by exposing the inner workings of the characters. 

Duncan follows the route Lewis and Clark took as they headed up the Missouri River. He embarks on the trip several generations later and drives a camper, so he experiences a very different landscape from the early explorers. It doesn’t matter; while the book itself is thirty-five years old, his blend of history, traveler’s and camping advice, and personal encounters make this memoir insightful, funny, and poignant even now. For anyone who would prefer to take a road trip from the comfort of their favorite reading chair, this is a satisfying read.

In Westward Expansion, Ray Allen Billington takes up the story of the American West where Morison left off. This is a sweeping narrative with Billington acting as a travel guide across the successively moving frontiers beyond the Atlantic Coast. He leads us to the crest of the Appalachians, and then over Ohio and down to Tennessee toward the Mississippi. Next, we race to the Pacific and then come back over the Rockies before finally heading onto the Great Plains west of the Mississippi. Yet Westward Expansion is more than a travelogue. In its pages, we travel with everyone who ever lived on these many frontiers: farmers, workers, soldiers, Indians, immigrants, townspeople. The list goes on and on. It’s America’s story with every triumph and tragedy bound up in constant motion.