Love Up the Down Staircase? Readers share 100 books like Up the Down Staircase...

A student would be incredibly lucky to have had Palmer as a teacher. I adore his humanistic way of thinking about teaching. As we all know, a classroom can be such a joyful place if teachers and students are on a voyage of discovery, but at other times, a lifeless, frustrating place to run away from. This is the most theoretical book of the five, but it’s based on his years of teaching experience.

Palmer feels strongly that good teaching cannot be reduced to technique if a teacher doesn’t have self-knowledge. I really appreciated his advice to slow down, keep questioning, and work on learning who you are. This is good advice for not just teaching but any field! 

I adored this book. I think every teacher should be given this book just to feel that although you might shut the door to the outside and be alone in the classroom with your students, you are not alone in what you face. This book convinced me that I needed to write my own teaching memoir. 

McCourt (author of Angela’s Ashes) and his sense of humor and creativity at times get him into trouble but eventually endear him not only to the students but also to the school administration. I might not have agreed with everything he described, but I was overwhelmingly delighted with his approach and his great rapport with his students. 

I love how the epigraphs set the tone. “I cannot teach anything; I can only make them think” (Socrates) and “It’s not the broken dreams that break us, it’s the ones we don’t dare to dream.” Connecticut high school science teacher Andy Bramante not only has his students dream, but he also shows them how to put foundations under these dreams.

In this book, a journalist describes an amazing teacher who gives the students freedom to research for science fairs and celebrates independent learning. With humor and kindness, Andy truly changes their lives and shows us we’re capable of so much if given the opportunity and trust. The book made me feel good about what a teacher can do and led me to remember great teachers in my own life.

I loved this book because of the issues it raises: should you bring social problems into the classroom, or should it be a sheltered enclave? When I started teaching, we were told to keep sex, politics, and religion out. But is this correct? The editor of this collection thinks no—There are so many important issues that young people need to grapple with: hate speech, violence against women, and war. How can you deal with them?

The author/editor believes that teachers have a responsibility to engage students in respectful discussions. The book features various teachers’ voices on how they have handled current issues and discussions. I love how these teachers show their caring side by wanting to help teenagers make sense of their lives.

If I ever have to write a book to get past the censors, this book will be my model. Who knew that a mordant critique of a corrupt state could be so elegant, even whimsical?

The barbs are so oblique that the censor has a hard time finding something to pick on or even noticing it, and yet they’re unmistakable to anyone living in a society with even a passing resemblance to Stalin’s Russia—and after reading The Master and Margarita, I see those resemblances in every organization and every regime.

While I grew up at the tail end of the Cold War, there was something in The Mouse that Roared that really spoke to me. The way that it takes an already absurd reality to an extreme really spoke to my own sensibilities and humor. History books tell the facts, but stories like this reflect how absurd the geopolitical culture must have felt to most people. It’s akin to Dr. Strangelove, not only in being a Cold War satire, but in the absurd and extreme nature of the farce. It influenced my own political satire heavily.

Max Barry’s satirical science-fiction novel, Machine Man, is a dark and funny mediation on contemporary society’s compulsive over-reliance on technology. The narrator, Charles Neumann, is a mechanical engineer who, while obsessively searching for his phone, loses his leg in an industrial accident. After building himself a new machine leg, Charles purposely loses his other leg, so he can replace it with another machine leg. After seeing how great his new legs work, Charles wonders if maybe he should replace more of his body parts with machine parts, begging the question: Where does humanity end and technology begin?

In an age of codified and tropey stories with uninspired characters and safe plots designed to satisfy whatever market drivers the Big Five publishers are pushing, Trump Sky Alpha gives me hope. It is not about aesthetics, or one-dimensional coffee shop, shirtless Brads, or conforming political views. It is bonkers, aggressive, and hilarious. 

In the aftermath of a nuclear war initiated by Trump, the “Orange Man”, an American journalist, finds herself in a containment zone, documenting the defunct internet’s wild humorous takes: viral memes and twitter’s heated exchanges. The journalist’s assignment soon uncovers references to an enigmatic figure, only known as Birdcrash, one who might know how to stop Trump from flying in a luxurious zeppelin for "the very best people who look terrific.” Yes, you read that right. 

A story about a biographer who pokes into the corners of a Nobel-winning author’s salacious life to write an exposé is juicy enough, but what happens when the latter uses the opportunity to write a counter-exposé on the former? Unstructured in plot and other novel-craft, this book is laden with pithy quotes on the writing life. The biographer and his subject are libidinous, adulterous, and self-absorbed, a testament to the fact that a writer has to be appreciated separately from their work. Also on display are the strategies employed by the publishing industry to keep the reputation and marketability of a once best-selling author alive, long after their effective shelf-life. 

The author’s voice captured me.

Once again, I’d never read anything like it before. He was having a conversation with me. I was now a character in an Amsterdam bar with him, the war had just ended, we were smoking cigarettes and drinking gin.

He would respond to my silent questions, and wax and wane philosophically, metaphysically, morally, ethically, and occasionally comically. 

And the beauty was that it had happened so randomly—a roommate had thrown the book in the trash, declaring it to be “bullshit.” I knew the lad to be an imbecile (an acceptable term at the time), so I fished the book out of the trash, read the first sentence, and loved it.

It was the quantumly entangled counter particle to Candide: one particle from the age of reason, the other particle from the age of existentialism.