100 books like Robinson Crusoe

I love this book because it’s a satirical work that still feels relevant 300 years later. Both a whimsical parody of travel books and a dark satire on human nature, I love the book’s creativity: it features everything from poop scientists to talking horses and flying islands.

As with most early novels, the name of the author, Jonathan Swift, appears nowhere in the book—it was published as if the main character, Lemuel Gulliver, were the author. I love how the book is alternately audacious and subtle; Swift is extremely faithful to the dry style of the travel books he parodies, even as he narrates absurd events, making this one of the weirdest and funniest books of all time. 

I love the experimental and absurd sensibility of this novel. In an age known for its groundbreaking fiction, this work stands out for its playfulness and complexity. Like Swift, Sterne was a clergyman of the Church of England, and I love how intelligent and sophisticated he is about dirty jokes and silly scenarios.

I also appreciate Sterne’s commitment to pushing the envelope: Sterne inserts all sorts of oddities, from marble pages to graphical representations of the book’s winding narrative. The book obsesses over the minutiae and small details of everyday life even as it considers weighty issues and tragic events.

Predicting both Freud and postmodernism, I love how this work feels both ultra-modern and very much of its time. 

I love this book’s mixture of camp and macabre. Like Gulliver’s Travels, Walpole’s name didn’t appear in the original book—the preface claims it was a long-lost manuscript found in “the library of an ancient Catholic family in the north of England.”

Ghosts, giants, and dark secrets power this blend of medieval kitsch, tragic fatalism, and dark fantasy, and I find the strange mixture both funny and richly stylized. Walpole was a famous eccentric and obsessive about the lore of the Middle Ages, and I love how he mixes so many genres: he riffs on everything from Shakespeare to contemporary politics.

As a fan of Stranger Things, I love anything that creatively weaves together familiar genres while producing something new for the present. In doing so, Walpole helped to create the formula for contemporary horror. 

I love a good scandalous read, and Cleland’s book, subtitled Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, is one of the most famous examples of literary smut. Purported to be the life story of a former prostitute, the book relays in detail the many exploits of its main character and her companions.

I love how creative Cleland gets in his descriptions: he took great pride in avoiding cursing, even as he relayed sexual exploits in obsessive detail. Tame by the standards of modern pornography, Cleland’s liberal and creative use of the phrase “balsamic injection” has made me unable to have a salad without giggling since I first read the book. 

This classic satire gripped me even though I only half-understood it. Whatever disaster befell my family, my mother used to assert it was surely for the best; so when, as an eye-rolling teenager, I found this on the reading list—Mum’s philosophy, tested in the real world—I was hooked.

OK, the eighteenth century was racist, sexist, and colonial… but perspective is what Voltaire is all about. Didn’t quite cure me of optimism, btw.

Candide is wonderful for many reasons, but above all because it is an equal opportunity parody.

Voltaire spares no one as he spoofs the usual suspects, such as religion, colonialism, and the nobility, but also the Enlightenment’s excessive optimism, philosophical speculation, and rationalism. Voltaire’s greatest setups are favored upon young Candide’s mentor, Dr. Pangloss who, in the face of every monstrous, absurd tragedy that befalls Candide, insists that all is well in this “best of all possible worlds.”

I also love that this crazy, tragic farce ends with a cautiously optimistic invitation to “cultivate our garden,” – to leave philosophical speculation to the philosophers, and instead to focus on concrete efforts to make the world a better place

The Enlightenment is often associated with intellectual changes. But the book sheds a new light on this “Age of Reason” by showing how emotions and feelings played a crucial role in this intellectually and sensorially dynamic period. Purnell tells this change by providing many interesting, and funny, episodes. My favorite, among others, is the seventeenth-century vogue for perfumes made of the excretions of the civet cat or the musk deer, and it was only in the mid-eighteenth century that floral scents became popular. This shift had to do with people’s ideas about health, cleanliness, and naturalness that changed over time. You will learn how and why people in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries thought about the senses, how they experience their sensory world, and how our sensory experience came about over the course of a few hundred years.

When British scientist and novelist CP Snow lamented that society had become divided between scientific and literary cultures, he sought a way to bridge that gap. He needed to look no further than Mary Terrall’s hero, Pierre-Louis Moreau de Maupertuis, who was the very model of a modern scientist-artist.

Maupertuis achieved early scientific fame by leading a geodesic voyage to Lapland (modern-day Sweden and Finland) in 1736, where, after a year of fighting extreme cold and summer plagues of mosquitoes, he proved Newton’s theory that the Earth was flattened at the poles. Maupertuis became a regular fixture in the cafes and literary salons of 18th-century Paris and Berlin and helped transform European society in the Age of Enlightenment.  

This is an incredibly interesting, well-written, and informative book that lays out the case for the amazing success of liberal democracies based on the Enlightenment values of liberty, universal humanism, and individualism.

I consider this book an essential reading for everyone who has been brainwashed by the current pessimistic and catastrophizing ideologies attacking this most successful of all human civilization.

Pinker is an outstanding writer, and the empirical evidence he marshals for the success and values of the Enlightenment in promoting human flourishing is utterly persuasive.

I remember the first time I realized I was in a city without addresses—Dubai, as it happened—and I was dumbfounded that such a place could exist, let alone succeed. In this book, Deirdre Mask unearths the hidden history of street addresses—a relatively recent invention from the Age of Enlightenment—and notes how many places ranging from rural West Virginia to hyper-modern Tokyo and Seoul do just fine without them.

In this wild ride from addressless ancient Rome to meticulously gridded and numbered Chicago, Mask explains how addresses have been used to keep track of citizens (for both good and ill) and how street names allow urban communities to define themselves by, say, changing Robert E. Lee Avenue into Martin Luther King Boulevard.