100 Books Like The Maniac

Alexander von Humboldt’s name is synonymous with scientific discovery today–the Humboldt Current, the Humboldt Redwoods State Park, and countless species named for him. Humboldt revolutionized our modern understanding of the natural sciences–geology, biology, meteorology, and much else–with his epic five-year voyage that set off in 1799 and brought him through the Amazon, the Caribbean, and North and South America. 

Like Malaspina before him, Humboldt studied not only the flora and fauna of these regions but also their peoples and the political turmoil that was building towards revolution. He met with the leaders of the time–Thomas Jefferson and Simón Bolívar among them–and opened their eyes to the richness of their lands. Unlike Malaspina, Humboldt’s works were published to wide acclaim and established the idea that all nature, including human nature, is interconnected. 

Usually, when I think of the Romantic Age, I think of the art and literature of the time. But I love how this book depicts its science as a wide-open activity, full of the wonder, false starts, pleasures, and pitfalls of any creative activity.

I think every scientist in this book also wrote poetry; the vast majority of them took as a given the fact that aliens lived on other planets; scientific lectures were a form of popular entertainment, as were many discoveries: e.g., laughing gas, the first anesthesia, was used at parties to get high before it was used in medicine.

I love to think of the discoveries of the past in the context of today, as when the race between England and France to develop a steerable hot-air balloon was, in effect, the first “space race.”

This book is a novel, unabashedly. It describes the lives of our old friend Humboldt and the math genius Karl Friedrich Gauss, culminating in their 1828 encounter in Berlin.

This meeting is a well-documented fact. Not everything else is. Daniel Kehlmann takes his liberties with history. He even boasts of his leger-de-main, like Alexandre Dumas.

The overall outcome is splendidly funny and uncannily wise. The cap-stone irony is that the most implausible episodes of the book are not the ones that the author invented.    

Towards the end of the eighteenth century, two astronomers set out from Paris, one due north towards Dunkerque, the other south towards Barcelona. Their task was to measure the length of the meridian arc between these two towns and, ultimately, to determine the precise length of the new-fangled meter, meant to serve as a unit of measurement “for all people, for all time.”

This may appear to be a humdrum task. It was anything but. At that time, royal heads fell, armies sprung from the ground, and money went into hiding. The author is as painstaking about historical detail as his protagonists were about their measurements. He left out no provincial archive and no calculation scribbled on a margin.

The outcome reads like a novel, splendidly conveying the quixotic flavor of the enterprise and the Sisyphus-like dedication of its protagonists.  

As the daughter of one of the last children to contract polio before the vaccines, I knew this was going to be an important book even before I opened it.

But it was also a page-turning chronicle of Dr. Dorothy Horstmann, a pioneer in the battle to eradicate polio. I was often infuriated by what she faced as a woman in science during the 1950s; it was a very good read that brought much-needed attention to this extraordinary woman’s gifts to medical science.

This short, dark novel hooked me from the beginning. Its beginning is, in fact, its ending when it is revealed that the protagonist, a young woman named Janet, has just been murdered. The story then jumps back in time to when Janet is born. I was drawn to the sharp, wry narrative voice and the gothic, stormy setting of northern mid-20th century Scottland.

The rest of the novel is an account of Janet’s coming-of-age instead of a typical and dull whodunit, which I loved because it felt fresh, true, and real to me—a revelation, in fact. I was so happy to encounter a young female protagonist who was odd, bookish, intelligent, grumpy, lonely, and highly unpopular.

A French import published in the US in 2024, Plasmas is an intriguingly spare, linked collection of short futuristic scenes.

Acrobats whose routines are programmed by biotechnology…tomorrow’s La Brea Tar Pits, where artifacts of both the distant past—and future—are unearthed…a female scientist bonds idealistically and tragically with great apes…these compelling stories revolve around a post-human world, written in an icy style that often feels post-human, as well.

Prodigiously translated by Annabel Kim, it’s a subdued, sort-of successor to Cosmicomics and won the French Prix de L’imaginaire, that country’s top prize for speculative fiction.

This is my favorite book by my favorite author. Beware, this is seriously more addictive fiction than I’ve ever read before—I don’t know anyone who reads this one who hasn’t plowed through the rest of Goddard’s list and then reread them all.

I loved the characters in this book and loved the premise—that the world (like ours, but different) has gone through a cataclysmic event, and now the work is to make it better than it ever was before. Fundamentally, it is a book about friendship and goodness. This and the rest of Goddard’s books will have you believe that we can create a better world together. (The first pages are slow, but stay with them, and you will have dozens of hours of delight as you move through the whole set of her books.)

I find it hard to resist stories about female gangsters. Heather Webb scoured the pages of history to tell the story of a gang of kick-ass bad girls called the Forty Elephants led by the infamous ‘Diamond Annie’ in London in 1925. 

What I loved about the story was that while Annie was fighting for respect in London’s male-dominated crime world, the first female detective at Scotland Yard assigned to bring them to justice was fighting for respect in the law enforcement profession.

Intelligent, unapologetic, and fearless women are my kind of girls, and Annie and her gang demonstrate true sisterhood as they rise to become Britain’s first female crime syndicate.

Talk about a complicated mother-daughter relationship! Almost as soon as her daughter is born, Blythe suspects something is…off. And no kidding, is it ever? This book takes the idea of not being able to connect with your kid to a whole other, really terrifying level.

What I particularly love about this book is how much it challenges the idea of who is in charge in the mother-daughter relationship, and what it means if your kid is really, truly, bad. This book actually made me gasp. The title refers to the central incident of the book, but I like it because the book also pushes against all kinds of societal norms.