100 Books Like The Hero And the Blues

Everybody loves this book because it, of course, has become an international classic of literature and one of the best works F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, which takes the reader on a time-traveling secretive world of the upper-class set in New England life in the 1920s.

In F. Scott's work, we are casually and comfortably introduced to an America where new money met old money, and the tender tightrope one had to walk in order to vie for position, marriage, and peer acceptance in a world founded on wealth and prestige.    

I might not have written my own family history without the example of this book. I was enthralled when I read this compelling, well-researched, and well-written “family memoir” (as Murray calls it) years ago.

Everything about it drew me in, Murray’s compelling voice, the depth of her research, her descriptions of her relatives, and the vanished world they inhabited. Magisterial in every sense of the word, this is family history as American history, by a woman who was a lawyer, activist, and, in 1977, at age 67, the first black woman ordained an Episcopal priest.

Her book continues to inspire me to strive to meet her example.

Though I never met him, Ralph Ellison has been my guide and literary mentor since I first read Shadow and Act, his first collection of essays. (It’s included here.) Countless times, I’ve written a sentence or come up with an idea I thought was original. And countless times, I've discovered Ellison got there first, years and years before.

The thread connecting this potpourri of reviews, criticism, meditative essays, and interviews is Ellison’s insistence on the centrality of the African-American experience to the American experience and his refusal to countenance the idea of black victimhood. “I recognize no American culture which is not the partial creation of black people,” he said. “I recognize no American style in literature, in dance, in music, . . . which does not bear the mark of the American Negro.”

The enduring sense of possibilities these words inspire is the reason I often describe myself… show more.

I still remember reading James Alan McPherson’s book for the first time. I was a senior in high school, one of a handful of black students in what had been an all-white private school. I closed the book, thinking, “Finally. Somebody understands.”

Like me, McPherson had gone from an all-black school, college in his case, to a majority-white school, in his case, Harvard Law. He began to write fiction there. It was the mid-1960s, but instead of hewing to familiar tropes of the time, black student unrest, black self-segregation, and black victimhood, McPherson cast an unflinching eye on blacks and whites interacting for the first time as equals.

He also depicted blacks in their own world lovingly but without sentimentality. I knew these people. McPherson taught me to see and appreciate them afresh.

More than a century before Oprah, emancipated African Americans organized their own book clubs. They studied mainly the Western classics but also emerging black writers.

While Booker T. Washington emphasized vocational training, more militant black leaders demanded the right to read the same authors taught in elite white academies: One of their syllabuses included Milton, Spenser, Homer, Aeschylus, Longfellow, Dryden, Pope, Browning, Pindar and Sappho. Those poets, said one reader, inspired the "hope [that] the great American epic of the joys and sorrows of our blood and kindred, of those who have gone before us[,] would one day be written."

And that's exactly what happened. A young Ralph Ellison read everything in the segregated branch of the Oklahoma City library; Malcolm X was profoundly affected by Paradise Lost; and Toni Morrison minored in classics at Howard University.

In Latin America, the long shadow of Iberian imperialism and the racist caste system it left behind continue to dampen or mute expressions of indigeneity in our communities.

Speculative Fiction for Dreamers is a welcome countermeasure against this suppression of indigenous languages, myths, and traditions in Latin American storytelling. The contributors weave a tapestry of more-than-indigenous futurity, that is chimeric and cyborgian, a meshwork of continents and cosmovisions that blueprint futures and alternate presents in communion with ancestral pasts.

From Samy Figaredo’s Taíno-inspired play, to Ernest Hogan’s short story set in new Aztlán, the stories, comics, and poems in this anthology provide a Latin American perspective on indigenous speculative fiction.

This book showed me how engaging, intellectual history can be written. It’s never enough to present information. If you respect your readers, as Delbanco does, keep them entertained. These twelve essays mix the personal, literary, and social in a lively and often surprising, frothy brew. I also like the way Delbanco makes the distant past relevant for today’s world.

Individual sentences are a delight. You’ll leave the book knowing much more about the life, times, and work of writers like Harriet Beecher Stowe, Edith Wharton, and Richard Wright.

What made this book so interesting was Nesbitt’s investigation into the way rum has been used as a literary device. References to rum in novels, short stories, music, and other forms of popular culture allow Nesbitt to expose the way rum has shaped historical constructs of colonialism, racism, and patriarchy in the Caribbean.

For example, Nesbitt juxtaposes characters from Hunter S. Thompson’s The Rum Diaries (1998) with characters in V.S. Naipaul’s Miguel Street (1959) to expose the way sexism and masculine drinking practices reinforce colonialist and imperialist tropes of the Caribbean as a dangerous place stuck in an unchanging cycle of alcoholic malaise. In Jean Rhys’s Wide Sargasso Sea (1966), references to rum reveal insights into colonial expectations of feminine respectability.

As a literary device, rum makes the Caribbean exotic, which has been used to demonize and eroticize Caribbean peoples. Rum was born in the coercive and dangerous environment of… show more.

This book opened a familiar world for me and transformed it into one I scarcely recognized. I learned so much I didn’t know about the iconic Jewish neighborhood of New York through the eyes of many photographers who were drawn to its crowded and dirty streets.

Some were Jewish photographers, some were not, but all of them contended with the challenge of picturing a neighborhood whose reputation set it apart from the rest of the city. I liked how Blair takes readers back into the 19th century and then travels up into the 21st century, letting us see both images and their afterlife. 

There’s no feeling I like better than the feeling that you are becoming smarter with each page turning of the book in your hand. Professor Elaine Showalter made history in 1977 with a big thick book called A Literature of Their Own: British Women Novelists from Brontë to Lessing which essentially put the Wikipedia of British Women Novelists, known and unknown, between two covers, with every entry written by someone who knew their stuff cold and was overjoyed to share it with you. 

This is the American writers version and even with writers we all have heard of in school or just by spending time in bookstores and libraries, every page Prof. Showalter has something you didn’t know about Maya Angelou even if you figured, as I did, you’ve read every word ever written by and about Maya Angelou. 

Reading this book, I felt like I was best friends with… show more.