100 books like Space Opera

I read this novel when I was about three-quarters finished with my novel, and was just blown away by the attention to detail, possibilities, and hope between the pages.

This is another hopeful near-future novel, in which humanity is trying its best to overcome the worst of climate change. Unlike my novel, however, which is told from the perspective of one family, Ministry for the Future is a truly global story, with dozens and dozens of narrators, many unnamed, who give us snapshots everywhere from the Arizona border to Antarctica to Switzerland to India, all coalescing into what becomes a global movement to try to save the planet.

This novel is a little lighter on plot, but fascinating as a menu of hopeful options and possibilities for what could be done if humanity really got its act together. 

This is a really fun, slim novel set on a moon, Panga, where technology long ago achieved sentience and decided to leave humanity for the wilderness.

The novel opens with a tea monk, Dex, who lives in a gentle utopia and becomes the first human to meet a robot in distant memory. The robot, named Mosscap, asks Dex, “What do humans need?” and what proceeds is a marvelous rolling conversation between robot and monk that spans philosophy, theology, and ecology, providing so much food for thought regarding a happy, nurturing post-transition world.

Most nonfiction books on social issues begin—in fact, some go on for about half the book—on the theme of what’s so bad about the problem being addressed. Most authors want you good and scared before they start talking about the good stuff. This book doesn’t do that. It opens, in fact, with a short story set in The World That Turned Out Okay.

And then it backs it up with real-world examples. Transition Town Totnes. Transition Streets. All sorts of projects, from all around the world. And throughout the books, it asks the same question again and again: why is it so hard to imagine a better future? How can we work on that? And then it answers it. The book is a toolbox of research, ideas, and techniques at both the personal and community level. Narrated first-person by the author, reading it is like chatting with a very clever,… show more.

By turns uplifting, bloody strange, heartbreaking, and joyful, this story collection touches on so many things: gender relations, race, hope, the need to feel safe, and the need to feel dignity among them. There are versions of America in this series that I dread, and versions of America that I long for. This is a book we need right now: a collection of dire warnings and beautiful dreams, hopes, and fears. We’re at a crossroads in history. This book reminds us that we can take a turn into the dark or the light. And wherever we go, we’ll be taking our whole selves and all our facets along for the ride: good and bad, kind and cruel, genetic and historical.

Strap in.

On the surface, OOTSP is about a British linguist who’s kidnapped to Mars, then escapes to meet pensive furry seal-people who teach him Earth sucks. Lewis borrows from H.G. Wells’ space travel and—this was written pre-space-age—his haunting, fantastical solar system doesn’t match what we’ve learned since, but his totally unique take on the physics of interdimensional beings rips the pants off anything anyone else ever wrote in metaphysical sci-fi. These angels aren’t your church’s cherubs, they’re not Frank Peretti’s white-robed super-soldiers, and they’re not Aslan and friends: Lewis actually took the limited science he had at the time about space and dimensional theory, and applied that science to his spirituality with fascinating imagination. The second book in this series, Perelandra, was always my favorite for its tense philosophy, gorgeous floating continents, and tortured protagonist, but Out of the Silent Planet—with ideas comparable in scope to Vernor Vinge’s “Zones… show more.

It’s hard to beat Scalzi for nailing the execution of a high concept.

Redshirts could have so easily been nothing but a gimmick, but Scalzi really gets into the guts of the horror and humor of being a character written for the sole purpose of dying. I picked up the book with a cynical eye, expecting to hate it, but it drew me in.

Scalzi went so much further with the concept, shined a light on every corner of the idea, that he managed to create a deconstruction and reconstruction of the same trope at the same time. 

I’m a physician, so it’s probably not surprising that a book by a physician about an alien physician might hit my list of meaningful space operas. What is surprising is Star Surgeon’s double-twist—the patients aren’t who we think they are, and the secret to getting Earth into the prestigious Galactic Confederation isn’t what we think it is—both of which actually had huge real-world thematic implications. On face level, it’s a medical thriller: the protag’s the first alien to graduate from human medical school, and he’s got to prove himself by curing an epidemic on a remote planet without arousing the ire of his human teachers. (I felt like this in residency.) But on a metaphysical level, Star Surgeon is a quiet manifesto dissecting the origins of racism—and the very biology of sentience itself. 

Yes, this is a Star Wars book, and on the surface it’s about Luke Skywalker and a reptilian alien invasion. Perhaps the biggest tragedy of Disney’s soulless, still-expanding media monopoly is the complete replacement of creative risk with bland corporate product, and Truce at Bakura hails from, as Obi Wan would put it, “a more civilized age.” Tyers investigates indoctrination, challenges concepts of “right to wealth” with a wise eye towards social justice before that’s even a term, and creates the most fascinating self-healing interaction with a parasite I’ve ever read. Unexpected metaphysical depth for sure!

Golding was living in Salisbury when he wrote The Lord of the Flies, and his day job as a teacher at a local boys' school left a clear imprint on his dystopic view of young men left to their own hierarchical devices. But the classroom also provided a very literal view of the inspiration for The Spire, a dense and disturbing parable in which rationality and physics crumble under evangelical mania and corporal lust. It is the story of Jocelin, Dean of a medieval cathedral, who, obsessed with a divine “vision in stone,” insists that the spire be raised to impossible heights. There is no happy ending in this cautionary tale of construction hubris, yet I return to it regularly in search of solace.

In this book, one of the great philosophers of the first half of the 20th century sketches his take on two central philosophical tasks -- explaining what kinds of things exist in reality, and how they are related, and delineating what we can know and how we know it.  In so doing, Russell illustrates the new method of logical and linguistic analysis he used in The Philosophy of Logical Atomism (1918), to lay the foundations of an epistemological and metaphysical system rivaling the great systems of the past. A key transitional figure linking the history of the subject to contemporary concerns, he raised logic and language to central subjects of philosophical study in their own right, without losing sight of their relevance for more traditional philosophical quests.