Books like The Park and the Town — picked by fans

This classic is not a history book as such, but as a single source, it provides great insight into nineteenth-century park-making and context. It uses the Parisian situation as a pretext to recommend improvements to park provision in other cities, and I love it because the author is so direct and critical, not only with respect to the situation in the French capital but also elsewhere. He is an enlightened observer of fashion and governance.

Terse criticism is provided where required, and which I Iike, and sensible, practical recommendations that are intended to improve the situation in England and often still resonate today. I also like the horticultural detail provided and the sensuous lithographs of plans and views, and I adore the cover of the original edition, which I treasure. 

As an open space, garden, or park ‘open to and maintained by or for the public,’ the notion of the public park is primarily a Western concept that is interpreted and translated variously in different cultures.

I like this book because it links policy in the USA to the design of public parks and provides four typologies in its development from the mid-nineteenth century onwards. While I have not made much use of these typologies since they apply particularly to that American context, it has inspired me to look deeper into how what we do is directed by policies and how our designs reflect politics.

This book reminds me of a spell in Boston, in my first job, and I acquired it then as I was eager to take the opportunity to explore its famous park system. This title was recommended to me as the main source of reference. I was immediately attracted to it because it was well-illustrated and with a direct, clear, and accessible text that explained the progress of the project.

To me, it provided a concise context and background for the park system that became prototypical as ‘the emerald necklace,’ not only in the USA but also internationally. I like the way it also addressed the theoretical development, the design process, down to the very detail of the project, in what remains one of the few such critical monographs of a single landscape concept.

I like the way this book not only traces national and international influences on the development of public parks in Britain but also how they affected design and management. It is all set out in a clear narrative, and at the time of its initial publication, it was a pioneering study.

The contents of this volume have now been incorporated in an even more comprehensive volume ameliorated and edited by Paul Rabbits, which completes the story to the present day. I like it as a standard go-to and as a source of reference for the study of public parks in the UK, which served as such an important source of inspiration elsewhere. 

A master of nonfiction crime writing, William Swanson uses his W.A. Winter pen name for fictional works, including this 2022 book that clung to my thoughts weeks after the last page. Based loosely on a Minnesota crime spree in the 1950s, Winter takes readers into the mind of Joe Lavoie—the wheelchair-bound lone survivor of three brothers who engaged in a shootout with police in 1953. Set in 1991, 38 years after the crippling police gunshot, the taut writing takes you into Joe’s mind and explores his dysfunctional family on what turns out to be his last stand.

This book is written by Minnesota youth after the murder of Mr. George Floyd.

As the nation faced the dual pandemic of the novel COVID-19 and racial reckoning, our youth needed a sacred space to pause, reflect, and heal. Through community writing workshops, youth developed the tools to write for justice. Their stories reflect their vision for building a more just and inclusive society.

This beautiful short novel about various matters, including chickens, house cleaning, idiosyncratic neighbors and parents, is funny—really, how can you not laugh at a hen named Miss Hennepin Country. (Her owners live in Minnesota.)

Also, the novel goes to the heart of the grief of infertility. At the same time, Jackie Polzin is very, very funny in a remarkably quiet way. Her writing is spare, eloquent, and precise. She is, as we say in the biz, The Real Deal. I can open this book at any page and marvel and be filled with happiness.  

This author was new to me, and I fell in love! The characters are rich, quirky, and distinctive. I was intrigued by the supernatural element. The story drew me in immediately, and I couldn’t put the book down. I loved how it ended.

I felt like I’d spent time with complicated friends who conquered their demons. It satisfied what I crave most from any book: intrigue, interesting, unpredictable characters that must peel away the layers the deeper I go, seemingly insurmountable obstacles that are eventually overcome, and a satisfying ending. I would equate the feel of this read to spending quality time with best friends, enjoying a steak cooked to perfection with roast potatoes crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. And, of course, chocolate mousse sprinkled with hazelnuts for dessert.

This book explores blood quantum, a faulty metric of “Indian blood” used to determine who is eligible for citizenship in a Native American tribe.

Blood quantum is a hot topic of discussion and continues to be controversial in Indian Country. Doerfler frames the issue expertly when she explores the real history of how White Earth Anishinaabeg at different periods of time conceive of identity. Or rather, who belongs, which is at the root of being Native American, both politically and personally.

My own feelings about blood quantum, once waffling and unsure, have evolved over the years. This book solidified my belief that blood quantum is built to destroy tribal nations and Indigenous identity.

In college I majored in American Indian Studies and became very familiar with the term “survivance”. First used by Anishinaabeg writer Gerald Vizenor, survivance, defined is survival that transcends victimhood, that resists generations of oppression, and carves meaning out of great pain.

Peter Razor embodies survivance in his autobiography, which recounts his childhood as a ward of the State of Minnesota in the 1930s. His story is one of many that shines a light on a dark period when many Native American children were taken from their homes and families, forced to uproot their identity and existence to the unforgiving world of white America.