The best books about good and evil (without being cloying or preachy)

This madcap story involves a militant Christian and a militant atheist who decide to fight to the death over the question of the existence of God. The trouble is that no one in the world will let them do it. When I first read it, much as I enjoyed the two central combatants and their repeatedly baffled zeal, I was even more delighted by the framework of the novel. The Ball and the Cross begins in a spaceship containing a mad scientist named Lucifer and a holy monk named Michael. The theological-cosmological setting seems clear, but this is not a twee presentation of the battle of the angels (cf. Revelation 12:7–10). These two have rich personalities and Michael in particular had a huge impact on me regarding the proper depiction of goodness.

Choosing a single Dickens novel is an excruciating task, and this choice is probably going to give me nightmares. However: one of the most brilliant aspects of Dickens is his ability to present the complexity of moral struggle. Usually his depictions of goodness rely heavily on comedy (which is splendid). Here I think Sydney Carlton and, to a lesser degree, that of Miss Pross, represent vividly self-sacrificial goodness outweighing personal defects of character. Lucie Manette, though symbolically a heroine, is not Dickens’ best (she’s a wee bit boring). Carlton’s redemption through violence, on the other hand, showcases the war between guilt and grace in the human soul, against a backdrop of evil and inhuman bloodlust.

Jane Austen is unparalleled in her depiction of good and evil on a domestic level. While the situations are slightly less dramatic than in the other books I have selected, Mansfield Park compellingly presents the consequences of habituated action. Fanny Price is not perfect and certainly not most people’s cup of tea, but, like all Austen heroines, represents virtue and a growing self-knowledge over the course of the novel. The Crawford siblings are vivid examples of dulled moral vision. Without committing the literary sin of giving away the end, I will say that the “anti-romance” trajectory of the plot is wonderfully satisfying. Further, Sir Thomas Bertram may be my favorite male Austen character of all.

The writings of Tolkien I believe to be too vast to be contained in the category of “fantasy”; he belongs in the categories of “epic” and “myth”. This does not mean he is superficial or impersonal in his characterizations; on the contrary, his capturing of good and evil are enduringly human. The characters of The Lord of the Rings in particular are so vibrant and real that I have spent long hours glorying in their goodness and grieving in their suffering or death. Gandalf, Aragorn, Faramir, and the hobbits are perhaps closest to my heart—and the scene of the Bridge of Khazad Dum nearly brought on emotional collapse in my eldest child. Every film adaptation of Tolkien fills me with dissatisfaction if not outright horror.

I consider Tim Powers one of the greatest living authors. I pick up any of his books with caution, because I know I will inevitably ignore my responsibilities for several days until I can finish it. A recurring theme in his works is the complex and fault-ridden protagonist, who undergoes purifying torments through his encounters with the preternatural. In essence, Powers beats the evil out of his protagonists. In Declare, he presents perhaps his most comprehensive mythology of demons as the context for a fascinating Cold War espionage plot. Can a spy engage in a life of deceit without losing his or her soul? Throwing in demonic djinn and real-life Soviet double agent Kim Philby, Powers weaves a gripping tale with the question of redemption at its heart.