The best nonfiction books about lots of things at once

Let me start with a confession: I don’t care about wolves—or at least, I thought I didn’t until I read this book. Now, I’m mildly obsessed. I see a wolf on screen or mentioned in the news, and my adrenaline spikes; I feel excited. I now know about OR-7, the wolf that migrated from the Wallowa Mountains in Oregon to the southern Cascade Range.

I discovered that wolves are family animals, despite what we may have thought, and that they average a speed of 5 miles per hour. And somehow, learning all this was fun because this book wasn’t actually about wolves at all; it was about the idea of wolves—in history, in culture—and therefore, actually about so much more, including the author herself. I couldn’t put it down.

Although this book is about so, so much more, the premise itself pulled me in—I mean, a memoir about an abusive lesbian relationship? Yes, please.

But of course, Carmen Maria Machado, with her incredibly lyrical prose and frighteningly sharp intellect, takes the memoir form and turns it into something unique and surprising, a reflection on her relationship that somehow involves cultural history, film, fairy-tales and even—I kid you not—Disney’s The Little Mermaid. I was so moved and learned so much that I read it twice within a month.

As someone of mixed heritage interested in how race, culture, and history intersect differently for different groups of people, I was immediately hooked by Cathy Park Hong’s book. Her examination of the Korean-American experience and all of the privileges and disadvantages of her race and position in society resonated hugely with me. 

But, almost more importantly, I found her essays thought-provoking, funny and wide-ranging. Stand-up comedy? Check. The 1992 LA riots? Check. The Beatles? Check. I’ve reread it multiple times and have recommended it to everyone I know.

I read Olivia Laing’s book at the height of my own loneliness: isolated, in lockdown, at the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic. Part memoir, part art history, part cultural criticism, the book managed to be both intimate and expansive—just what I needed as I sat by myself in front of a computer, anxiously refreshing virus graphs.

I became absorbed by the lives of Andy Warhol and Edward Hopper, Henry Darger, and David Wojnarowicz, artists I’d heard of but knew nothing about, and by the various aspects of loneliness I’d never previously considered. It’s the perfect example of the type of hybrid writing that I find truly magical.

The conversations I have most often with my friends revolve around books—the intersection between books and society, books and politics, books and change. But these conversations have generally been meandering and, to be honest, often only half-articulated, interrupted by gossip or the need for a tea top-up. So when I picked up Elaine Castillo’s book, it felt like I was suddenly being given the insightful, intelligent, fully-formed version of a topic I’d always been drawn to but never quite managed to excavate properly.

Like the other recommendations on this list, it’s both personal—Castillo talks about her own relationship to reading and culture—and enormous in scope, encompassing history, cultural theory, popular culture, and, of course, literature.