45 books like Killing for Coal

This book was released when I was starting my own work on mining history, and it greatly influenced everything I have written since. I love how LeCain traces how the demand for copper to electrify American cities led to the creation of massive holes such as the Bingham and Berkeley pits.

For me, the crux of the book is the idea that, as the quality of copper ore declined, mining companies used more energy and brute force machinery to dig unimaginably large open pits, producing landscape scars and toxic legacies that are still with us today. It makes visible the immense cost of America’s great industrial acceleration. 

I have rarely encountered a book that captures the local impacts of mining as well as Lianne Leddy’s Serpent River Resurgence. I was impressed with how the author, a Serpent River First Nation member, used oral history and family stories to document how the uranium rush at Elliot Lake, Ontario, irrevocably altered the ability of Serpent River members to hunt, fish, and gather off the land.

To me, the book's real strength was the author’s refusal to depict her fellow community members as victims, highlighting their successful campaign for environmental cleanup of the toxic legacies that remained long after the uranium mines had closed. 

Asbestos was once thought of as a life-saving fire retardant used to construct walls and ceilings, but now we know it is (in its dust form) the cause of deadly lung diseases. I loved this book because it focuses on the struggles of people on the front lines of exposure: asbestos miners and millworkers.

I was inspired by the bravery of asbestos miners when they went on strike in 1949, partly for safer working conditions, only to meet the batons and paddy wagons of the Quebec provincial police. I was also shocked by the fact the owner of the mine, Johns-Manville, secretly harvested the lungs of dead miners for analysis at a lab in Saranac, New York, all the while suppressing the evidence of harm to the workers’ bodies. 

This one challenged me to get out of my historian’s bubble and confront the impacts of mining in the present and near future, especially those associated with the looming energy transition. Pollon blew me away with sobering facts, such as the need to mine 3 billion tons of minerals to stay below 2 degrees of global temperature increases.

I was also captivated by the author’s accounts of his travels to the front lines of the critical minerals boom, which paint a vivid portrait of the vast scale of development associated with lithium, copper, and nickel development. Pollon’s book reminded me that technological solutions to climate change (important as they are) come with their own environmental and human costs.  

The Ludlow Massacre in Trinidad, Colorado in 1914 is a shameful event in Colorado, U.S., and labor history. Zeese Papanikolas has created a portrait of the United Mine Workers of America’s battle for labor rights in the southern coalfields. Drawn from interviews and letters of survivors and witnesses, he captures the Greek immigrant experience in the United States. He also relates the story of the charismatic Greek organizer of the UMWA, Louis Tikas, who became a martyr in the battle for the union. Buried Unsung inspired me so much that I used it as a reference for my novel, in which I explore the bitterness of the strike and the tragedy of those whose lives were forever altered by the greed and cruelty of those in power.

A fascinating look at the use of coal as a main fuel source in early modern London, the fearsome pollution that resulted from it, and efforts to understand and mitigate the effects of that pollution.

I think the most impressive aspect of this book is how many different approaches Cavert takes in examining his topic—political and legal history, history of science, social and economic history, even literary criticism. He argues that London was the first “modern” city in that it was the first to rely heavily on burning fossil fuels to provide the energy that powered its early industrial economy.

Another book that features sons. Lawrence’s father was a Nottinghamshire coal miner and there are many little details in the book that attest to the author’s knowledge of nineteenth-century mining family life. I’ve chosen Sons and Lovers because, to me, it asks an unanswerable question and so the tale has stayed in my mind. Did Lawrence despise his own father as much as fictional Paul, influenced by Paul’s mother, despises Walter Morel? I’d love to know. I sympathised with Gertrude, the wife and mother, but I felt so sorry for Walter. He worked hard in a terrible job. He became old and tired before his time. Yes, he was uncouth and illiterate, but I felt he deserved some praise, not contempt.

I’ve read all of this series, but this was my favourite. I have a thing for kick-ass heroes who have a vulnerable side. I love characters who can be strong and fight to protect what’s theirs but can also be damaged, flawed, not perfect. I think it makes them far more interesting. Coal hits the mark on this. Big and strong, but seriously damaged.  It helps keep me more invested in his story and development. And yes – it does help that this book is hot!

Billy Elliott is a miner’s son who wants to be a ballet dancer. This is an adaptation of Lee Hall’s original screenplay and, to me, lacks the feel of a novel, but I’ve chosen it for three reasons. It’s set in County Durham. It challenges traditional, macho values. It’s as good a description as anything I’ve read that describes aspects of the UK miners’ strikes of the 1980s. When Jackie, Billy’s dad, says, "There’s coal behind everything in this country. It’s still down there. We’re not,” you can sense the anger, hurt, and bitterness—and, forty years later, just like the coal, those feelings remain.

I love this book because I was emotionally blown away by this beautifully written tale of a fourteen-year-old boy’s journey across the war-driven South. I experienced his change from a naïve young boy to manhood. How can something so tragic be written so poetically yet simply? I want and need to feel strong emotion when I read, to be connected to the character(s). I certainly was here.

This was the first book I read by Robert Olmstead, but it hasn’t been the last.