30 Books Like The Sick Rose

This is another book about death that will also make you laugh.

I appreciate how direct this book is while still managing to be tender and sensitive. And the artwork matches the tone of the text well. Death looks both friendly and a little creepy.

It may not be for every family, but I love how oddly funny and heartbreaking this book is. 

This is a book I would have loved to write and illustrate. “The bird was dead when the children found it.” says its opening line. 

There are many children’s books that deal with grief and loss but The Dead Bird is one of a kind. The kids in the story didn’t know the bird when it was alive. They only meet the bird after it has died and yet, they have a funeral for it. They sing for a bird that once flew and no longer will. They cry for a life that was, but no longer is. 

With child-like simplicity and directness, Robinson’s illustrations capture the human need for ritual and closure in the presence of death.

I’m a completionist. I take pleasure in completing a game or task involving many steps that I can tick off as I go.

A to Z lists thrill me like nothing else can! Seeing different minds tackle the same 26 letters each in their own way, never gets old. I was a grown-up when I first discovered Edward Gorey and found him amusing.

But when I discovered this book, the hairs on the back of my neck tingled. He was taking on the A to Z challenge! And he nailed it. Each line is concise and yet tells me everything I need to know.

It’s a short book, but since each line comes with an illustration showing that letter’s victim’s last moments, it’s worth pausing to savor each page.

The photographs compiled in this book were all captured by Enrique Metinides, my favorite Mexican photographer.

Enrique worked as a crime photographer for over 50 years, capturing murders, crashes, and all kinds of catastrophes for Mexico’s infamous tabloids. This photo book is a great testament of Mexico’s palpable surrealism, where death is just one more component of the chaotic landscape.

Even though Metinides worked for the sensationalist press, none of the images in this book could be called that. His photos emanate an enormous respect for the victims and for tragedy itself.

The beauty of his shots do not romanticize the “real-life horror” that we are looking at. Rather, they remind us that sometimes, when in the presence of the devastating forces of life, there’s nothing else to do but be a humble spectator. 

This book is beautifully written and one of my favorites. It’s about a woman’s marriage, infidelity, and hardship in a foreign setting that ultimately brings about self-knowledge and awareness. Written in the 1920s, it might seem too old to be relatable, but I’ve read it several times and find it incredibly incisive and real.

The protagonist, Kitty, goes through a massive transformation, and by the end, I’m always impressed by how brave she is, and how smart. It’s a different kind of grappling with the past in this novel—here, it’s about facing what you thought you wanted, who you were in the past, and wanting to change--maybe not so different after all!

I think this is by far the most convincing and meticulously crafted study of Africa’s deadliest cholera outbreak in the 21st century. The book paints the political, social, and cultural complexities of pandemics in an extraordinarily lucid way, balancing carefully worded scholarly analysis with vignettes that left me astonished.

For me, Chigudu’s evidencing of the willingness of Zimbabwe’s government to treat its township citizens as utterly disposable is unforgettable. This book helped me rethink the painful legacies of urban design and racial segregation on the continent. It also poignantly underlines the abject indifference of the post-colonial African state as it reproduces the conditions “when people eat shit,” as one gripping chapter is titled.

Charles E. Rosenberg published his book, The Cholera Years, in 1962, and it has remained the classic book on the history of medicine in the 19th century United States. Rosenberg has had a singular impact on the field and has written on many public health topics, but his first book remains my favorite. Cleverly integrating the histories of social change, religion, and the contentious politics of New York City into a richly detailed chronicle of three separate epidemics of cholera, Rosenberg provides a gripping account of how Americans’ responses to public health crises have changed over time.

The grime and stench of crowded, electric 1850s London permeates the pages of this book. I loved the immersion mixed with a history of urbanism and the problems unique to places where people live crammed together, sharing resources and, unfortunately, diseases.

I’d read about the cholera outbreak in London before, which occurred at a time before doctors understood germ theory. Johnson’s account gripped me as we follow early epidemiologist John Snow through his revolutionary investigation into the cause of the outbreak. This book tought me key medical and science history that I needed to understand as I embarked on my own book about a deadly, mysterious disease outbreak.

This book touched many from my generation.

For me, Mary’s abandonment by the adults around her, came close to home. I rooted for her to free her soul. It was the beauty of the garden and the gentle robin that first melted the ice around her heart by connecting her with nature.

Then along came Dickon, who had grown up deeply connected with the earth and inspired her further, and finally Colin, who, like her, had been neglected. They healed each other as they revitalized the garden, experiencing the joys of mother earth.

It reinforced my own faith in mother nature, who also supported me whenever I grappled with my reality. 

I found that the length of Colwell’s career has given her a depth of experience that shines a light on just how bad science was for women even in the 1950s and 60s.

We sometimes forget that women have been discriminated against for decades, even as they’ve fought hard-won battles to be treated fairly. I appreciated Colwell’s detailed narrative of her science, too, and how the challenge of finding a solution to a scientific problem led to much celebration when that solution was found.

I also liked that she told stories of other women in science, like Nancy Hopkins at MIT, who worked tirelessly for equality for women at her institution.