75 Books Like The Mezzanine

This is a classic oral history of jobs in what older people call “the good old days.”  It is told from the perspective of the individuals doing the jobs they were talking about, and it reveals how interesting their day-to-day experience is.

The reminder for today, especially in our remote workplaces, is how important relationships with people at work are to our happiness and well-being. It’s also a reminder of how important it is for people to have some control over what they do and to feel invested in their work.

People want to do things well and take pride in what they do. We forget all this when we think of workers as widgets to be optimized. 

One early summer afternoon, the body of a young woman is dredged from the mud of Lake Vättern, and Detective Inspector Martin Beck of the Swedish National Police is assigned to the case. Who was she? Who killed her? These questions remain unanswered for months and months (and months). Catching a killer, it seems, is a slog, and the routines of police work are captured here in all their tedium. And this is exactly why I love this book, as it compellingly dramatizes (to quote from Henning Mankell’s introduction) “the fundamental virtue of the police: patience.” There’s a heroism to these steadfast and rumpled men, and something thrilling about their dogged, often frustrating, yet ultimately successful pursuit of the truth.

During Italy’s post-WWII economic boom of the ‘50s, in an anonymous northern Italian city, an unskilled laborer named Marcovaldo struggles to support his wife and five children (or seven, or four—the number changes). In twenty tightly-plotted tales, we observe him stealing a trout, stealing a rabbit, getting lost in the fog, shoveling sidewalks, trying to fall asleep, trying to stay warm in the winter. Each “adventure” complicates absurdly, and some are more dire than others. Though on the brink of poverty, Marcovaldo hangs on, strives and fails, and strives anew, never losing his naive sense that things will turn out fine. The best comic writing is always tinged with the tragic, making you laugh and making you feel, and Calvino is a master.

I could have picked anything by George Saunders, really. He’s the closest thing I have to a personal deity. Such is the level of awe and wonder that he invokes in me, I actually find him difficult to discuss. It’s like trying to look directly at the sun.

Suffice it to say that CivilWarLand in Bad Decline—the title refers to a failing theme park—is like all of his other short story collections. It’s beautiful and wise and heart-breaking and deeply intelligent and, yes, desperately funny. I would pay a lot of money to be able to read it again for the first time. 

I stumbled upon this incredible book that explored the parallels between ancient Eastern philosophy and Western psychology.

Thinkers like Zhuangzi and Laozi understood that not trying paradoxically can improve performance and focus. Indolence can be another way to release one’s mind to the ebbs and flows of the outside world. Honestly, it was a delicious surprise to realize that the ancient philosophers had so much to say about human indolence.

A fiction writer instinctively overthinks what he is writing about, but this book helped me to stop worrying about word counts or writer’s block and just accept that words come out eventually… sometimes as a trickle and sometimes as a roar.

This is one of my all-time favorite reads.

Ideally, novels are supposed to provide escape and insight, but sometimes a hefty novel can seem too ponderous a commitment for lazy people.

As an alternative, flash fiction can accommodate people who have failing attention spans or inflexible schedules. Sure, it won’t be as engrossing or uplifting as a 900-page novel, but it’s easy to dive into a random page and enjoy the magical possibilities of prose.

Yourgrau’s flash fictions are more playful than plausible. (Example: “A man comes home and finds his wife in bed with a squirrel.”) Good flash fiction doesn’t need a lot of action, just surrealistic touches and a surprising moment or two.

Eventually, after a few good laughs, you’ll be ready to read something longer and meatier.

Not much happens in this light-hearted 1965 children’s book by an award-winning poet.

A solitary hunter befriends (and shares an abode with) a mermaid, a bear, a lynx, and a young boy. They live together, totally unbound by human rules. The hunter teaches human language to the mermaid and learns about the perspective of undersea creatures.

The mermaid is a perfect audience for the animals’ wild antics and the hunter’s strange human habits. She finds it hilarious that the hunter uses a fishing pole to catch fish. (“You look so helpless just sitting there waiting for one,” she says.)

This clever and carefree story lacks plot or incident, but it captures the absurdity of different kinds of creatures living under the same roof.

I love Andersen because his stories almost out-Kafka Kafka.

His animal characters are not exactly philosophers, but they observe, they dread, they dream. Animals—like humans—rarely challenge the natural order of things, but they must deal with the world as it actually is.

One Danish critic said that Andersen wrote more self-portraits than Rembrandt ever painted. Andersen’s great contribution to literature is recognizing how little is needed to produce a story and how little a great story really needs to say. 

One story tells of a chance meeting and spurned friendship between two toys in a drawer. Andersen seems capable of turning anything into a story.

This annotated hardback edition by a folklore scholar is one of the most beautiful-looking books I own.

With Imperial Bedrooms, Bret Easton Ellis channels many of his career-long obsessions into a nihilistic work of Hollywood noir, written in a minimalist prose style that evokes both Raymond Chandler’s staccato brutalism and Joan Didion’s haunting lyricism. Imperial Bedrooms takes a razor to Hollywood’s beautiful surfaces while drawing the reader deeper and deeper into protagonist Clay’s misanthropic paranoia. The writing is masterful, existential horror frozen into sentences so spare and focused they often resemble haiku. It features what might be my favorite closing line in fiction: “The fades, the dissolves, the rewritten scenes, all the things you wipe away—I now want to explain all these things to her but I know I never will, the most important one being: I never liked anyone and I’m afraid of people.”

When I was a homeless artist living on Chicago’s cold streets for six months, it was hard for me to believe in a compassionate Judeo-Christian God. It was difficult for me to reconcile how a just and benevolent God would let African pregnant women be thrown into the Atlantic Ocean and perish with thousands of other slaves.

That is why I became agnostic and was attracted to Sartre’s belief in the essential freedom of individuals, and he also believed that as free beings, people are responsible for all elements of themselves, their consciousness, and their actions. It made me question why I was homeless. Was it because of bad choices in life? Or was it just the experience of being a black male in a racist capitalist society?

Sartre became an existentialist because of the war and an encounter with Merleav Ponty, who taught him the political dimension of human… show more.