100 Books Like The Crying of Lot 49

I love the fact that this book intertwines humor and satire around subjects of religion, weapons of mass destruction, and human indifference and indolence. I love that it, sadly, also has parallels to the world we currently live in.

Good satire never grows irrelevant, and Cat’s Cradle is as relevant (and funny) today as it was when it was written.

Overstuffed and labyrinthine, Eco’s novel dives into a highly academic rabbit hole of conspiracy theories that toss me head over heels like a strong wave in the ocean. It reads a bit like The DaVinci Code written by Thomas Pynchon (who we’ll get to in a minute), the paranoias stemming from historical entities like the Knights Templar and the Rosicrucians.

I’d be hard-pressed to provide an accurate summary of events, but it all makes for a pleasantly bewildering reading experience.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or stage an intervention. This book introduced me to Ignatius J. Reilly, a character so insufferable and absurdly grandiose that I kept turning pages just to see how much worse he could get. I was horrified and hypnotized. I couldn’t look away.

What I love about this book is that it doesn’t ask you to like anyone. It asks you to witness the glorious wreckage of human delusion. It is chaotic, bloated, brilliant, and somehow still moving. Toole gave me a character I wanted to strangle, and a novel I wanted to reread. That kind of friction is rare, and I live for it.

This was difficult to do well, but Ackroyd makes it work–and he makes it look easy: One half of the story is told in a very idiosyncratic version of early eighteenth-century English (the other half in contemporary English). The level of sheer craftsmanship is impressive.

The story gripped me: a serial killer mystery with touches of the occult and supernatural. London is a haunted place in this story, but not only the victims of the past but also the killers are still with us today. We come to understand that our entire world is built on the flawed achievements of the past.

Did this book give birth to hardboiled literature? No, but I feel it mothered and fathered it. 

Did this book—when filmed in 1941—give rise to film noir? I would say yes or “oui.”

This book lives on in libraries and bookstores, in minds and memories, on screens big and small, as a cultural masterpiece. But please don’t get me wrong about masterpiece. Hammett’s existential story of antiheroic private detective Sam Spade wriggling out of death as he fends off the cagey but crazed pursuers of a worthless “jeweled” bird breathes more deeply, more compellingly every time I re-read it. Through the book, I face the dark—and find the gloom almost charming. 

It is difficult to imagine a list of great novels about the Middle Ages that does not include this book.

I read it first when I was in graduate school, and it brought so much of what I was studying to life – the monastic world of its setting with all its contradictions and spectacular architecture; fights over religion and the true nature of spirituality; the non-linear nature of medieval literature. 

I love how it can be read on one level as a page-turny murder mystery and on another as a post-modern novel that explores the nature of signs and meaning. Its mystificatory preface reveals the distance between the medieval world and what we can say about it.

You know what any misfit with telekinetic powers should do to her enemies after years of torment culminate into a single act of spiteful cruelty? Carrie does! I love how she gains awareness and control of her abilities. I love how she wields her power against her nasty, dim-witted bullies.

I cheer when she locks the door and slowly walks away, leaving them to their fate. I love how she takes revenge on her vicious mother in a way that flies in the face of her vindictive fundamentalist beliefs. A sweet-natured girl, maligned by an entire community, taking a final, violent stand against unbridled ignorance? BADASS.

I first read this book as a teenager and missed the full force of its ferocious satire. Re-reading it years later, I laughed out loud. Waugh’s genius is to set his story of a love triangle in a Los Angeles funeral home. This way, he gets to poke fun at Hollywood and the American funeral industry while giving the dead a prominent role in the drama.

When, for example, embalmer Mr. Joyboy starts wooing young cosmetician Aimée Thanatogenos, he does it through the expressions he puts on the faces of the corpses he sends to her makeup studio. When Aimée falls for his rival, a poet and pet mortician, the beatific smiles of Mr. Joyboy’s death turn into ghastly grimaces. It’s one of my favorite moments in the book—but there are many more.

This book is perfect. Every single poem in it is a home run.

It taught me that meter and rhyme are just as effective at portraying our contemporary experiences as they were for experiences of yore. And so much of the poems’ charge comes from living idiom—the English spoken right “now” at an actual point in time.

I’ve rarely found myself rooting so much for a detective. The novel chronicles one man’s lonely and obsessive hunt for a child murderer in 1950s Switzerland. This is a thrilling, fast-paced read, and some of the scenes affected me deeply.

Beyond the plot, however, what I find most compelling are the story’s explorations of the nature of evil and the role of chance in human life. Reason is put to a severe test in this story about a world full of darkness and chaos.