Fans pick 100 books like The Red Pony

This book is written basically as a western road movie. The two main protagonists, former Texas Rangers, decide, on little more than a whim, to assemble a cattle herd and drive it north from the Rio Grande to Montana, with the author providing some wonderful descriptions of the topography and hardships they encounter. 

What makes it a classic for me is how the central characters explore their own mettle from the dichotomy of Woodrow, who is moralistic but happily rustles Mexican cattle and won’t acknowledge his son because the young man’s mother was a prostitute.

Gus has a more enlightened outlook towards another prostitute, and his humor allows the young girl to embark on a passage to discover her place in the West. The story is as stunning as the landscapes.

This ranch-centered book puts a human face on the cost of war.

A best in the West (or at least his small Nevada town) bull rider is physically and mentally torn apart by war. He can’t see the future he envisioned for himself anymore. But the story is really about his younger brother, Cam. I love Cam’s humor most of all, but his devotion to his idolized big brother is what makes this more than a story about a skateboarder turned bull rider.   

This book is about family in an opposite way from The Red Pony it confirms the safety net family can provide. 

I’m still not satisfied with delayed gratification! In great words and pictures, this book sums up that rebellion against getting great stuff later. A little boy is repeatedly told he can ride a horse along with his cowgirl mom and rancher dad “someday.”

I grew up with chronic asthma that was aggravated by running, playing, dust, and horse hair. Doctors told me that I’d outgrow it "someday." That didn’t help. On television and in books, I soaked up the free-wheeling freedom of riding. And wanted it. I longed to ride so much that–like the boy in this book–my parents saw it was important. About once a month, my parents rented a horse that I could ride along the (now cement-lined) riverbeds of Southern California.

Yes, they’d be up all night with me, wheezing. No, they weren’t giving in to me. They satisfied my need to be myself–not a cowgirl, but… show more.

This book isn’t fiction, but it feels like it. I am wrapped in the reality of the frontier through letters, diaries, recipes, and great old photos–every time I pick it up. And that’s often.

I first gave this book to my mother, but my husband paged through it so many hours each time we visited that I gave him his own copy. Cooking on the trail, on cattle drives, in camps, and finally, on hardscrabble ranches and farms isn’t easy. The book is full of struggles, and I feel for the women who wrested survival out of the earth daily.

They write about being driven crazy by the relentless wind, shortages, and loneliness, but there are plenty of jolly–it’s the best word for their beaming faces–pictures. I love what those old photos show: an appreciation for nature, family, and farm animals, and their determination to have tea parties and make… show more.

I read this book years ago but it’s always stayed with me.

The teenage protagonist, 13-year-old Jason from Worcestershire, England, has a stammer: a speech difficulty that haunts him and has him performing all kinds of manoeuvers to avoid saying certain sounds in class. This would only add embarrassment onto all the other embarrassments he feels as a boy going through puberty.

He calls his stammer ‘Hangman’. As well as this daily struggle, he realises his parents are arguing, and he gets bullied at school.

As a reader, I was touched by his resilience and doggedness. David Mitchell has admitted that the book is semi-autobiographical and this adds another layer of poignancy. 

As a bad boy protagonist, I’ve always loathed Gene Forrester and love to loathe him. He starts as a quiet, intellectual student whose best friend and roommate is charming, self-confident, athletic, and a daredevil without being arrogant. Gene even seems to admire his roommate for having all those qualities until we learn the truth. He resents him. 

Like Gene, there were times in my life when playing wingman to a vastly more popular friend could be frustrating, doubly so when they made terrible decisions. Yet, Gene’s journey to the heart of darkness helps put things in perspective. There is no better warning against envy and jealousy than the one immortalized by John Knowles.

This story has a Huck Finn flavour to it, recast on a 1950s road trip by bus.

Orphan Donal goes from the frying pan into the fire when his grandmother, his guardian, gets sick, and he is farmed out to a nasty-tempered relative he has never met.

After all the talk of Donal having no family, his salvation comes first from Herman, a non-relative who helps him escape back onto the bus that brought him there. The two light out for the West and cobble together what will feel like family in a ragtag bunch of misfits.

I grew up in a small Montana town, so Watson’s novel has a special meaning for me. It is a vivid portrayal of small-town life on the Great Plains and takes place during the same time period as my own book. It tells of the corruption of a trusted official and its effect on his family, his victims, and the town itself. Watson’s novel allowed me to feel and understand the deep emotions, the pain, the anxiety, the love, and the disappointment that his characters were feeling.

This book is utterly un-put-downable. I read it one, feverish sitting. It’s about a boy, Owen, who is literally born with a bird in his chest. She talks to him, and she’s quite funny and sometimes snarky. Owen is known as a Terror, and his mother does everything she can to try to protect him from the Army of Acronyms, aka doctors, nurses, social workers, and anyone who wants to study him and expose him.

Although this speculative premise plays a prominent role in the book, the heart of the book for me is this tender, queer, coming-of-age story about a boy trying to accept himself and let others accept and love him, too. It’s beautiful, smart, and aches in all the right places. 

A mix of coming of age in the first half of the twentieth century, and Bradbury’s peculiar brand of very earthly oddness and sci-fi strangeness, Dandelion Wine is full of all sorts of magic. It reminds you of what it is to be a small human again, when everything seems possible, and aliens and monsters are as likely (and as important) as long summer days spent outside, barefoot and sunburnt and a little feral. Even when we don’t recognise the details of the childhood described, we remember the feeling, and it reawakens a sense of wonder that’s incredibly precious.