100 Books Like The Culture of Inequality

I did well in history growing up, but an accident at a mountain in the 7th grade had me laid up and reading a book about Native Americans in their own words. At that point, I knew they weren’t teaching us everything.

Finding Howard Zinn later was the motherlode of what history teachers hadn’t taught us, and I absorbed it.

When I started researching the slave trade in the mid-2000s, there wasn’t a great deal of historical work that examined the realities of the trade for its enslaved victims, nor the merchants who organized it.

I therefore had to turn to Barry Unsworth’s exceptional 1993 novel Sacred Hunger, to gain insight into the slave trade’s gruesome realities. Unsworth undertook deep historical research before writing Sacred Hunger, which examines the fictional slaving voyage of the Liverpool Merchant.

The novel vividly exposes the violence, misery, and death that was at the trade’s core, as well as enslaved people’s constant attempts to resist their captivity. He also paints an accurate portrait of slaving merchants’ chilling rationality and “Sacred Hunger” for personal profit, regardless of what achieving that ambition costs in human lives.

In my youth, the “Age of Discovery” launched by Columbus’s 1492 arrival in the “New World” and perpetuated by European imperialism through the mid-20th century, was characterized as a “civilizing mission.”

McClintock’s superb interdisciplinary scholarship provides a markedly different assessment of settler colonialism, a global order that legitimates white, male control of colonized women and men. Attained by violence, these stratified systems are sustained through capitalist economic relations secured by “voluntary” contract.

The book illuminates how the invention of race not only enabled European men to own and manage 85% of the earth’s surface by the end of the 19th century but also police the “dangerous classes,” the working class, the Irish, Jews, prostitutes, feminists, gays and lesbians, criminals, and anti-imperialists within their own nations.

As economic inequality has grown exponentially over the past five decades, some of the dispossessed have rebelled. 

Focusing on mobilizations in Brazil, Mexico, and Salvador, Gledhill demonstrates how struggles for social justice are transformed into “threats” to national security, which require “securitization” measures. Through intricate ethnographies, the book documents the deployment of the police, military, and paramilitary to quell domestic disputes.

Protests by students, laborers, migrants, Indigenous, the poor, environmentalists, and human rights activists are subjected to police “pacification” involving state violence, criminalization, incarceration, and sometimes death.

Situating securitization in the context of transnational and global relations generated by capitalist uneven development, Gledhill argues that the logic of capitalist accumulation in the current era is inseparable from repressive violence against “inconvenient” populations.

Having read Robert Nozick’s philosophical defence of free markets, Anarchy, State and Utopia, in my early twenties, I started searching for a comprehensive rebuttal. With Self-Ownership, Freedom, and Equality, my search came to an end. Cohen — who sadly is no longer with us — was a gifted analytical philosopher who developed his critique of Nozick and other free marketeers over many years. The book delivers a clear and powerful distillation of his thought, which corroborates the intuition felt by many of us that there is something profoundly wrong with the conflation of freedom with free markets. 

This book is the first time I thought about the concept of capital bias – how, in our society, we are operating with attitudes and institutions that favor those with money – and it was one of those times where once I saw something, I then couldn’t unsee it.

This idea may sound very basic or obvious, but Marjorie unpacks the concept with nuance that blew my mind and made me realize unexamined ways that I operate with this bias, too. I also deeply appreciate that Marjorie doesn’t stop at calling out the problems; she then points to what else is possible and already happening, towards realities of shared prosperity and power.

This read was a really important one for me in my journey toward work focused on reimagining how we fund, including how we invest.

I am thankful for the ways this book made me more clear and brave… show more.

I thought it was super cool that a Black woman and a white woman came together to tackle this topic. I loved that they used a cross-section of economic situations and demographics centered on one of my favorite cities—Atlanta—to tell the story.

I learned a lot about rapper Killer Mike and was moved by the story of Tandreia Dixon, who worked her way to being a six-figure earner by her early thirties, in the face of challenging circumstances, yet struggled and struggled to get into the homeownership game. Reading about her was like watching a movie when you know something bad is going to eventually happen.

Ok, I cheated (already). This is not really about art, but it is about politics. There are some essays on art, but all of it is about how badly we have screwed up how we think about politics, especially in the United States.

We think and talk—incessantly, endlessly—about disparities between groups. What this book shows, from every angle, is that this way of talking and thinking is how exploiters want us to talk and think. Sounds counterintuitive, I know.

The point is to stop talking about disparities and disproportionalities of awfulness and start talking about class inequality. The point is also to say that addressing class inequality is addressing disparities, but not vice versa. 

An Unkindness of Ghosts opens with the dedication, “To my mother and her mother all the way back to Eve.” While the other four books on this list emphasize the queer and genderqueer people we might choose to recognize as ancestors, this book focuses on Aster’s relationship with her mother, revealing the way that biological family can, in certain instances, support and affirm genderqueer identity.

I was profoundly impacted by this book because it boldly confronts the uncomfortable truths about racism, privilege, and spiritual practice. This book pushed me to examine how these issues affect my own path and the collective awakening. I love how it intertwines the Black prophetic tradition with Buddhist teachings, creating a powerful call for radical honesty and inclusiveness.

The conversations within these pages are both challenging and liberating, urging me to engage more deeply in meaningful dialogue and take action toward real social transformation. It’s a necessary, transformative read for anyone committed to justice and spiritual growth.