100 books like The Devil's Cormorant

I love how journalist Susan Casey takes us inside this story and ultimately becomes part of it while revealing remarkable facts about white sharks and the scientists who study them. As a journalist, I can relate to how her obsession almost drew her too deep into a largely unknown and dangerous place inhabited by an animal that was as much myth as reality to her before she came face to face with it.

There is a lot to like about this book, but for me, ultimately, the immediacy, honesty, and vividness of her writing made me unable to put it down.

I love a book that reads like a novel but is outrageously well-researched and transports me to another time. I love vivid characters who provide me with new lenses to better understand better historical events I thought I already understood.

This fast-paced nonfiction book about the 1916 New Jersey shark attacks that gripped the nation and inspired Jaws kept me on the edge of my seat. It also provides a look at the shark science of the day and the perceptions that informed it. It's definitely a beach read!

When a journalist becomes so obsessed with a story that she embarks on a global and often dangerous quest to uncover truths that many wish would remain hidden, I know the book she produces will be at the top of my “to read” pile the day it is released.

As someone who has reported extensively on wildlife crime and the ornamental fish trade, I could not put this book down. In the final equation, however, it was the bigger question that the book asked that has kept it front of mind for me all these years later: What is our relationship with wild things, and what dark places can we go if we allow our desire to own these things outweigh our respect for them.

I love books about obsession, and when they are told through the mind of a thoughtful and intelligent journalist, all the better in my book! As a journalist who has covered fisheries at the intersection of science and sustainability, I knew I had to read this book. I knew it would be important, but I had no idea I would love it so much.

Like the best nonfiction books on my shelf, this one is multidisciplinary and includes science, history, crime, environmental justice, and more. I moved seamlessly through the narrative, which carried me from dock to boat, science to policy, history to global dilemma. When a book leaves me reconsidering my place in the world, as this one did, I know it’s one to which I will return. 

Building your own sailboat from scratch, then sailing it from California down to Baja, camping, and surfing along the way: how can that not be a cool story? Christian Beamish manages the perfect blend of introspection and backstory with descriptions of sea, sky, land, and the people he meets along the way.

Creation’s Journey ties actual native stories and beliefs with genuine artifacts from the vast collections of the National Museum of the American Indian. It provides a refreshing approach to our understanding of indigenous people’s utilitarian objects and how important they are in their daily lives. The photos in this book show the care for detail and craftsmanship that was pervasive in everyday Native American objects and clothing. It inspired me to commission native Americans to hand make the various costumes shown in my book.

In 1986, New Zealander Gerry Clark set off on what would turn out to be a three-year circumnavigation of Antarctica aboard his home-built plywood yacht Totorore. The ostensible objective was a study of seabirds – notably albatrosses – but this is no ornithological treatise. In the Chilean channels and the intricate waterways around Tierra del Fuego, Totorore and her crew lurch from one near disaster to another, each recounted Tilman-like in an understated style. Later, he is dismasted twice and the voyage becomes a desperate struggle for survival. We were lucky enough to meet Gerry – and have him sign a copy of this book – in 1990; it’s rightly described as “one of the most remarkable small boat adventures of all time.” Tototore and crew disappeared one night in 1999, en route to retrieve satellite transmitters from albatrosses on Antipodes Island, off New Zealand. 

A Parrot Without a Name is the tale of a quest as primitive and compelling as any grail search from medieval legend. It’s the story of John O’Neill and Theodore Parker, two of the 20th century’s most accomplished birders and ornithologists, and their pursuit of the least known and most elusive birds in the whole of South America. Parker, whose death in a small plane crash in the Ecuadorian mountains cut off one of the most famous and unique escapades in birding – he ended up knowing and recording the calls of more than 4000 bird species – shows up as a colorful character with all the quirks of other great scientific iconoclasts such as Alan Turing and Robert Oppenheimer. 

I first read this one in high school, and to say it blew me away is an understatement. Five people in sixteenth-century Peru die in a bridge collapse, and a devout Catholic priest sets out to see why—what about God’s plan for the world can be discerned from an examination of why these five, and no others, died that day.

This book's impact on my worldview was enormous: how we take what we experience and use it to make sense of our world. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve reread it, and it still strikes me to the heart every time.

Few scholars possess the ability to take complex historical situations and present them in a manner that is equal parts educational, palatable, and engaging. Brooke Larson is one of those rare talents. When I was in graduate school, I devoured Larson’s Cochabamba, and soon found myself looking to get my hands on anything authored by her. Needless to say, I was eager to read Trials of Nation Making when it was released. I was not disappointed. This wonderfully engaging history examines the role that race and ethnicity played in the framing, founding, and forming of Andean republics, where Creole elites sought to solve the so-called “Indian Problem.” But this is no top-down history. As Larson masterfully illustrates, Indigenous historical actors employed a range of strategies—from legal action to open rebellion—to demand participation in nation-making processes.