100 books like The Pillowman

The first thing I ever wrote was a play about a goose girl, and I’ve been fascinated with fairytales ever since. As a poet, I adore how the images speak deeply to our subconscious—fur, hair, mirrors, blood, snow, fairy fruit. As a nonfiction writer, my book explored witches and princesses, whilst my latest adult novel looks at a fairytale salon in Paris attended by Perrault. I hope this list convinces you that fairytales aren’t only for the nursery but are as important to literature as Greek myths—shaping our narratives and reemerging in surprising places. 

The first thing I ever wrote was a play about a goose girl, and I’ve been fascinated with fairytales ever since. As a poet, I adore how the images speak deeply to our subconscious—fur, hair, mirrors, blood, snow, fairy fruit. As a nonfiction writer, my book explored witches and princesses, whilst my latest adult novel looks at a fairytale salon in Paris attended by Perrault. I hope this list convinces you that fairytales aren’t only for the nursery but are as important to literature as Greek myths—shaping our narratives and reemerging in surprising places. 

The first thing I ever wrote was a play about a goose girl, and I’ve been fascinated with fairytales ever since. As a poet, I adore how the images speak deeply to our subconscious—fur, hair, mirrors, blood, snow, fairy fruit. As a nonfiction writer, my book explored witches and princesses, whilst my latest adult novel looks at a fairytale salon in Paris attended by Perrault. I hope this list convinces you that fairytales aren’t only for the nursery but are as important to literature as Greek myths—shaping our narratives and reemerging in surprising places. 

The first thing I ever wrote was a play about a goose girl, and I’ve been fascinated with fairytales ever since. As a poet, I adore how the images speak deeply to our subconscious—fur, hair, mirrors, blood, snow, fairy fruit. As a nonfiction writer, my book explored witches and princesses, whilst my latest adult novel looks at a fairytale salon in Paris attended by Perrault. I hope this list convinces you that fairytales aren’t only for the nursery but are as important to literature as Greek myths—shaping our narratives and reemerging in surprising places. 

I have a congenital heart disease in which I go into spontaneous cardiac arrest, and I am now 1% bionic (I have an ICD—defibrillator and pacemaker—implanted). Ever since waking up from that surgery, I’ve changed my perspective on what it means to live in the Venn Diagram overlap of “human” and “machine.” My heart—an organ at the heart of so many metaphors about love and emotion—is not like everyone else’s. It is connected to a battery to keep me alive. I write about what it means to be human to better understand myself.

Throughout the forty-one years (thirty-four of them at Oxford) I spent as a university teacher, I taught a course on Communist government and politics (latterly ‘Communist and post-Communist government’). Communist-ruled systems were never less than highly authoritarian (when they became politically pluralist, they were, by definition, no longer Communist), and in some countries at particular times they were better described as totalitarian. That was notably true of Stalin’s Soviet Union, especially from the early 1930s to the dictator’s death in 1953. The books I’ve written prior to The Human Factor include The Rise and Fall of Communism and The Myth of the Strong Leader: Political Leadership in the Modern Age.

I became fascinated by North Korea during a six-month fellowship in Tokyo in 2008. Japan was still dealing with the aftermath of the return of some of its abducted citizens in 2002. It turned out that North Korea had been abducting people—South Koreans, Japanese, and others—since the 1970s. I began interviewing some of the returnees and embarked on an eight-year journey that took me back to Japan and South Korea many times. Throughout my research and reporting, I became convinced that the truth of the abductions, much like the truth of the region, lay between Korea and Japan. I was drawn to books that tried to come to terms with the uncomfortable relationship between two cultures whose similarities are trumped by their mutual animosity.

I have been a professor of politics and law for decades, first at Harvard and then Oxford, and so on; I spent these decades trying to understand what makes democracy work. I think we’ve been focusing on the wrong things, and as a political and legal theorist, I want to help us think about a better way forward—one we can carve for ourselves every day of our lives.

I have a congenital heart disease in which I go into spontaneous cardiac arrest, and I am now 1% bionic (I have an ICD—defibrillator and pacemaker—implanted). Ever since waking up from that surgery, I’ve changed my perspective on what it means to live in the Venn Diagram overlap of “human” and “machine.” My heart—an organ at the heart of so many metaphors about love and emotion—is not like everyone else’s. It is connected to a battery to keep me alive. I write about what it means to be human to better understand myself.

I began writing speculative fiction because I was fascinated by its potential as a laboratory to imagine the world that could be. It’s a narrative form that allows us to play with revolutionary changes in society without any real people getting hurt. And it compels the author to do the hard work of imagining how others experience life in the real world as well as the imaginary one. The best SF novels balance their speculations with a grounding in the observed world, entertaining us with propulsive wonder while filling our minds with new ideas and fresh perspectives that linger long after we put the book down.