100 books like Tell the Wolves I'm Home

Even though I read this novel many years ago, this book still sticks with me. I’ve always liked novels that update Greek mythology and rituals, but it’s rare to find one that creates a fresh, contemporary, and riveting story. This novel does that—and it’s also a thriller, one of my favorite genres.

The characters, led by the brilliant and enigmatic Henry Winter, delve into ancient rites, leading to deadly consequences. The novel beautifully captures the atmosphere of an elite college and the psychological complexities of being an outsider at such a school. Each twist in the plot reveals a new secret that’s both fascinating and unsettling. The novel is a spellbinding journey into the depths of human nature and intellectual obsession.

Coming out sometimes happens slowly. This book is about two boys who meet over one summer and become best friends. Although they’re different, they find the pieces of themselves that fit together.

Throughout the story, it felt as if they were meant to be together. The Universe made it so. All Ari had to do was believe. 

This was my first Grady Hendrix book, and it had everything that makes his work an instant buy for me now: the characters are well-realized and imperfect, with their relationship at the forefront of the horror; it’s incredibly funny; the scary scenes are burned into my brain to this day. I love the ‘80s vibes of this novel (it has a certain Heathers flair)—from the outfits to the TV evangelist exorcist.

I really enjoy feeling grounded in place and time, especially with horror and speculative fiction, where you need to suspend your disbelief. This book manages to walk the perfect line between being way over the top yet also having a very relatable and emotionally resonant story of friendship.

The Saturday Night Ghost Club wraps a poignant story about grief and loss inside a nostalgic 1980s package that brings to mind the best of Steven Spielberg and Stephen King.

I’m always a sucker for a group of misfits who band together and learn some important life lessons, and Davidson takes that outline and fills it in with Uncle Calvin, Jake, Billy, and Dove. Uncle Calvin will break your heart, the boys’ friendship will warm it, but the real MVP for me is fierce, wild Dove.

The vibe of this book is sleepovers in wood-paneled game rooms, staying out past bedtime under a full moon, and being on the cusp of leaving childhood fears behind, while learning that the adult world sometimes holds more darkness than you knew. 

Rasheed Newson's powerful debut is an eye-opening exploration of historical injustice and the resilience Black and queer people in particular have cultivated to overcome it.

The protagonist, Trey, comes into his political awakening through his work volunteering at an AIDS hospice, with many parallels to my own journey. Though this book is set in the past, it offers profound insights into the systemic issues that persist today.

A few years ago, I had the chance to write about Allan Gurganus for Harper’s magazine. That gave me a reason to read his entire oeuvre. There’s a lot of great stuff in there, but Plays Well With Others is my favorite. Published in 1997, it was the eagerly awaited follow-up to Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All, Gurganus’s smash hit debut, which had come out in 1989. That book sold several million copies and was adapted into a TV miniseries as well as a Broadway show.

Unfortunately, Plays Well could not escape the long shadow cast by Widow. But I am here to tell you that this story of a queer friend-group weathering the worst of the AIDS crisis in 1980s New York City is a sui generis work of genius: a sexually graphic, laugh-out-loud funny, emotionally devastating tour-de-force, as beautiful and bonkers as it is… show more.

My personal wish is that Americans start reading a whole lot more books from other countries, especially books that shine a light on the queer experience around the world.

Ours is a global community, and we can’t fall into the trap of thinking diversity only exists in our own country and language. Lucas Rocha’s novel tells the story of three Brazilian teens who are dealing with the impact of HIV in their own unique ways. It’s engrossing, tender, and transporting.

Anyone who loves this should also seek out the work of Vitor Martins, and should demand more books in translation so we can travel through literature.

Steinberg is one of South Africa’s great writers of narrative non-fiction; his work is oddly little known outside his home country and it was of huge value to me when I discovered it, not long after I moved to Johannesburg.

This book tracks the progress of a testing and treatment program in Lusikisiki, which had one of the highest HIV infection rates in the world. Part of the story is told through the eyes of a white doctor who expects that, once treatment is there, everyone will seek it out – and a young Black man named Sizwe, clever and successful, who shows all the reasons why HIV response is not as simple as opening up a clinic.

Steinberg’s book probes into some of the messier, less-well-understood dynamics that have driven the pandemic, and features voices rarely heard outside a community like Lusikisiki.

I may be a bit biased on this one since Dr. Goldstein is one of my mentors, but this book really shows the power that narrative has when it comes to understanding illness and assessing risk.

Once Upon a Virus very clearly helps us understand why looking at disease and illness from the standpoint of the community is so important. If we want to promote any type of health behavior or change, we must adapt to the specific community instead of expecting the community to change.

Listening to these stories is crucial for public health and I really wish more people would read this book and understand that!

A big mistake in much radical analysis is to characterize problems in dualistic terms that externalize responsibility from Africa (Rodney, of course, is wide open to that critique). Thus, colonialism is not just irredeemably bad but simple to identify and directly related to white skin. The end of formal colonialism provided new targets in sometimes caricature form: black-skin-white-mask neocolonialism and neoliberalism, notably. Such things undoubtedly exist. However, Kenworthy’s brilliant, gob-smacking analysis of the unintended consequences of life-saving technologies reveals levels of complexity and complicity that belie easy dualisms. How does something that promises liberation from mass suffering and death (anti-retroviral drugs) become a machine to entrench corrupt elites and opportunistic NGOs, to sell cheap textiles in America, and to exploit poor women’s unremunerated care work? Read, weep, and lose your illusions about corporate social responsibility.