100 books like The Pillowman

I was six years old, and already a lover of Hallowe’en, when the special joy of stories took hold of my mind. It has never left. By the time I was an adult, I had come to value finely crafted fiction, the beautiful nuances of thought and expression possible in the hands of the greatest writers. At the same time, I never lost my youthful enthusiasm for the ghost, the deep forest just at twilight, the unused room at the back of the house where no one goes. To my delight, I have found there is an entire tradition of such work—gothic shapes rendered by the highest quality writers.

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. 

In The Ministry of Truth, I wanted to bring together two longstanding interests: dystopian fiction and the history of totalitarianism. Nineteen Eighty-Four is of course a landmark work in both categories. In trying to explain how and why Orwell came to write his masterpiece, and its subsequent influence on fiction and political thought, I read a huge range of books that wrestled with the horrors of Nazism and Stalinism and asked how they were able to hold sway, physically and mentally, over tens of millions of people. Many of them are gripping and valuable but these five in particular make for great companions to 1984.

Most of my public success has been as a novelist. My MFA, from the Iowa Writers Workshop, is in poetry. When I grow up, I want to be a short story writer. The dirty truth is, though, I’ve been making trouble with stories since I was a kid. During my first attempt in 10th grade, I wrote a story that got me suspended for two weeks. No explanation. No guidance. Just a conference between my parents, teachers, and principal (I wasn’t present), and they came out and banished me. I dropped out of school shortly after. I reckon that experience, both shameful and delicious, shaped my life and love of narrative.

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 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 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.