A Few of My Favorite Books

“One glance at a book and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for a thousand years. To read is to voyage through time.”
— Carl Sagan

Growing up, we did not have a television until I was sixteen. I learned to read at the age of six, and ever since, books have been constant companions in my life.

Some I discovered as a child, when my father read to me in the evenings. Others appeared later during long train rides, student years, or quiet weekends. A few I return to again and again.

Books allowed me to see the world long before I could travel. Through them I experienced times in which I never lived. I became an explorer, a diver, a pilot trying to survive after an engine failure, a submarine captain, a time traveler, a wandering knight, a peasant, a disillusioned soldier, and at one point even a female cat.

This page is not meant to be a formal list of “great literature.” Instead, it is a personal collection of books that shaped my imagination, made me laugh, or helped me think differently about the world.

I have not covered even half of my favorite books yet — this page will continue to grow.

Books I Return To

Some books you read once. Others stay with you for life.

My introduction to literature

Before learning how to read and becoming an avid reader, I was a listener.

We didn’t have a television for a long time, and my parents never followed the latest parenting fads. Instead, every evening before bedtime, they would read to me. Looking back, I realize those quiet moments were probably the beginning of my lifelong love of books.

Together we traveled through enchanted forests with the Brothers Grimm, followed Hans Christian Andersen’s unforgettable characters, laughed with Karlsson on the Roof, flew across Sweden with Nils Holgersson, wandered through Wonderland with Alice, and searched for the Golden Key with Buratino.

Those evenings gave me much more than stories. They sparked a lifelong curiosity about people, places, history, and ideas. Today, research confirms what my parents probably knew instinctively: reading aloud to children strengthens family bonds, enriches language, and nurtures imagination. At the time, however, I simply knew that every night another door to another world was about to open.

Hans Christian Andersen

The first author I clearly remember is Hans Christian Andersen. I have to admit that, as a child, I wasn’t particularly fond of some of his endings. More than once I asked my mother to rewrite the finale of stories such as The Swineherd, making sure that the prince and princess would live happily ever after. Only years later did I come to appreciate the deeper philosophical and moral lessons hidden behind Andersen’s bittersweet endings.

Ansersen Fary Tales in Russian

My favorites remain:

The Tinderbox

This story taught me several lessons, although probably not the ones Andersen intended.

First, I never liked the fact that the soldier kills the old witch who had just given him access to enormous wealth simply because she refuses to explain why she wants the tinderbox. Even as a child, that seemed profoundly unfair.

Then there was the money. Once the soldier becomes rich, he moves up the social ladder and suddenly acquires a great number of friends. He entertains them generously, and everyone seems delighted to know him. But as his money begins to disappear, so do his friends. When he becomes poor, they stop visiting altogether. Apparently, friendship purchased with money lasts approximately as long as the money does.

There was one more lesson that took me much longer to understand. The soldier’s wealth came suddenly and required no effort to acquire, and he spent it just as easily as it came. Many years later, after reading an article about the lives of lottery winners, I remembered The Tinderbox. Sudden wealth does not necessarily make people wealthy for long. Learning how to acquire, manage, and preserve something may be just as important as having it in the first place.

Not bad for a fairy tale about three enormous dogs and a magical tinderbox.

Thumbelina

The story of a tiny girl who values her independence above everything else.

The Steadfast Tin Soldier

The heartbreaking story of a lonely one-legged soldier hopelessly in love with a beautiful ballerina.

The Swineherd

As a child, I disliked the ending so much that I asked my mother to rewrite it, making sure the prince and princess lived happily ever after. Only years later did I realize Andersen wasn’t writing a romance. He was writing about character. The prince discovers that the princess values novelty and luxury over genuine beauty, and simply decides she is not the person he wishes to marry. That lesson stayed with me far longer than any happy ending could have.

The Little Mermaid

A well known to American readers through Disney’s adaptation. However, the Hollywood version reminds me that I wasn’t the only one who decided Andersen’s original ending deserved a happier conclusion.

The Snow Queen

Andersen’s epic tale of Gerda’s determination to rescue her childhood friend Kay after his heart is pierced by a fragment of the devil’s mirror. As a child, I remember it as an exciting adventure. As an adult, I found myself returning to this story more than once. Different stages of life revealed different meanings, reminding me that great fairy tales continue to grow alongside their readers.

Ole Lukøje

Ole Lukøje is a character, invented by Andersen. He stealthily sneaks into children’s bedrooms, gently blows into the back of their heads and, as they fall asleep he opens one of two umbrellas over their heads: one with beautiful pictures, which he opens over children, who have been good, so they will see wonderful dreams, or a simple one, without any pictures, so children, who have been bad don’t see any dreams. Recently I’ve learned, that the name can be translated as Ole-Shut-Eyes. As a child I was fascinated by this mysterious visitor. As an educator, I now have more appreciation, both as a parent and an educator at Andersen’s wonderfully gentle lesson that encouragement, or positive reinforcement, as we call it, often teaches more effectively than punishment.

Grimm Brothers

While Andersen transformed old folk tales into literary fairy tales that were gentler, less violent, and more suitable for children, the Brothers Grimm were collectors. They preserved stories that had been passed down through generations of German oral tradition. Their tales feel almost like the Old Testament of fairy tales—ancient, dark, morally uncompromising, and filled with characters who often meet terrifying fates.

The Twelve Brothers

A surprisingly dark tale of sacrifice, transformation, and redemption.

Hansel and Gretel

Children abandoned in the forest, starvation, cannibalism, and ultimately survival through courage and ingenuity.

Tom Thumb

A tiny hero repeatedly swallowed, kidnapped, and lost, yet always managing to outwit much larger opponents.

However, there were some less violent and more entertaining:

The Bremen Town Musicians

A wonderful tail about four animals: a donkey, a dog, a cat, and a rooster, who had been discarded as useless by their owners. They get together and decided to go to Bremen to become musicians there. They have lots of adventures on a way to Bremen, but never actually get there. Perhaps this is what the retirement is all about.

Sweet Porridge (Der süße Brei)

A very short tale about a girl, who receives a tiny enchanted pot, which can produce delicious porridge. All you have to do is remember the command: “Cook, little pot!”, so it will start cooking when you are hungry and to stop you should say: “Stop, little pot!” All kinds of mischief might happen when one forgets the stopping word, but nobody complains.

Charles Perrault

Although many of his fairy tales overlap with those later collected by the Brothers Grimm, Charles Perrault was unmistakably French. A successful lawyer and civil servant at the court of Louis XIV, he helped establish institutions such as the French Academy of Sciences and the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture. Later in life, he turned his attention to writing stories for children.

His Tales of Mother Goose transformed old folk tales into elegant literary fairy tales that have shaped childhoods for more than three centuries. Compared with the darker world of the Brothers Grimm, Perrault’s stories feel distinctly French—graceful, witty, and filled with memorable details that captivated me as a child.

My favorites are:

Cinderella

Perhaps the best-known rags-to-riches story ever written. Glass slippers, a fairy godmother, and the hope that kindness and perseverance are eventually rewarded.

Little Red Riding Hood

One of the simplest and most enduring cautionary tales. Unlike the Grimm version, Perrault’s original ending is uncompromising—there is no huntsman arriving at the last moment to save the day.

Sleeping Beauty

A story that inspired countless adaptations, yet still retains the elegance and charm of Perrault’s original telling.

Puss in Boots

Probably my first encounter with a trickster character. A clever cat armed with nothing more than wit, confidence, and a good pair of boots manages to transform his poor master into a marquis. Looking back, it may have been my first lesson that intelligence and creativity can sometimes accomplish more than wealth or brute strength.

Fary Tales of People Around The World

This was a book I loved during my childhood and later read to my own children. The book itself is now old and beaten by time and use, but the collection of stories was absolutely marvelous.

There were African tales about lions, a Japanese tale about two frogs traveling toward each other—one from Kyoto and the other from Osaka—and many stories from cultures I knew almost nothing about at the time. Long before I could actually travel, this book gave me little glimpses of the world beyond my own.

And then there was my all-time favorite: The Three Little Pigs.

Why this particular story? Looking back, perhaps I should have known that I would eventually become interested in decision-making. While his brothers take shortcuts, Naf-Naf takes the potential danger seriously and prepares for something that hasn’t happened yet. He builds a house strong enough not only to protect himself, but ultimately to save his brothers as well.

His philosophy could be summarized in one memorable line:

“A piglet’s house should be a fortress!”

Apparently, my fascination with planning for uncertain outcomes started rather early.

Humor & Childhood Favorites

Baron Münchhausen

One of my favorite childhood books is The Surprising Adventures of Baron Münchhausen. I must have been about five or six years old when my father was reading it to me. I remember those evenings very well, because every half a page my father would burst out laughing — sometimes so hard that tears were running down his face.

At the time I simply enjoyed the stories, but later I learned that the famous book by Rudolf Erich Raspe was partly based on tales told by a real person: Hieronymus Karl Friedrich von Münchhausen.

The real Baron served in the Russian Imperial Army, took part in several campaigns, and was stationed in Riga. In Baltic German noble circles, storytelling was a popular pastime. Gentlemen entertained each other with imaginative accounts of hunting trips, military adventures, and improbable exploits. Münchhausen became famous for telling particularly extravagant stories about himself.

Raspe, who first published the stories in the late 18th century, was a fascinating character himself — a librarian, scholar, and (unfortunately) also something of a con artist. It is very likely that he embellished or even invented some of the adventures that later became part of the legend.

The Baron’s exploits are wonderfully absurd. Among them:

  • flying through the air while riding on a cannonball (not recommended by my patients. One star.)
  • visiting the Moon (recent experience suggests this requires more preparation than initially anticipated)
  • suturing his horse back together with a laurel tree after it had been cut in half (current trauma surgery standards do not support this approach)
  • shooting a deer with a cherry pit, only to later find a cherry tree growing from the animal’s head (my gardener found this idea inspirational. I found this concerning)

These stories belong to that delightful category of literature where imagination is allowed to run completely wild.

I strongly recommend reading Baron Münchhausen to children. The stories are unforgettable — and judging from my father’s reaction, they are just as entertaining for adults.

Astrid Lindgren

Astrid Lindgren created some of the most memorable characters of my childhood. Interestingly, I never read her most internationally famous books about Pippi Longstocking. My Lindgren was Karlsson-on-the-Roof and, somewhat later, the adventures of the young detective Kalle Blomkvist.

Karlsson-on-the-Roof

As a child, I saw Karlsson primarily as a troublemaker. He would convince the Boy to do something the Boy would never dare to do on his own, create complete chaos, blame everything on him, and then simply start his little engine and fly away. I found him enormously entertaining, although even then I understood that having Karlsson as a friend was probably not particularly good for one’s disciplinary record.

Only much later did another interpretation occur to me: perhaps there was no Karlsson at all.

Perhaps Karlsson was the Boy’s imaginary friend—a mischievous alter ego who could do everything the quiet, lonely, well-behaved child secretly wanted to do. And whenever something went terribly wrong, there was always a perfectly reasonable explanation:

Karlsson did it.

Whether Lindgren intended this interpretation or not, I still like it. Children have imaginary friends, and sometimes those friends provide a safe place for adventures, emotions, and behaviors that are difficult to express otherwise.

There was also an excellent Soviet animated adaptation, Karlsson-on-the-Roof. I thought it captured the essence of the books remarkably well: Karlsson was charming, selfish, boastful, completely unreliable—and absolutely impossible not to like.

In retrospect, perhaps that was the point. Not every childhood friend has to be a good influence. Some are simply a lot of fun.

Interestingly, when I first read Karlsson-on-the-Roof, I had no idea who Astrid Lindgren was. To me, Karlsson was simply Karlsson: a wonderful troublemaker who would persuade the Boy to do something he would never dare to do himself, get him into trouble, blame everything on him, and fly away.

I discovered Lindgren as an author only later, and quite by accident.

Kalle Blomkvist

When I was in third grade, I developed a craving for detective stories. I had already read and loved Anatoly Rybakov’s The Dagger, but it was so unmistakably Soviet. I wanted something different.

A librarian came to the rescue.

“Do you like Karlsson?” she asked.

“Of course!”

She handed me another book by the same author: Kalle Blomkvist.

And suddenly I found myself in a wonderfully foreign world of young detectives who were roughly my own age. They lived differently, their streets and homes were different, and their everyday lives felt exotic to a Soviet schoolboy. Yet I could immediately relate to them.

Perhaps most importantly, I discovered something that seems ridiculously obvious today: people in foreign countries also had thieves. They also considered stealing an injustice. And children there also believed that injustice was something worth fighting against.

It was a small revelation, but an important one. Long before I could travel and see other countries for myself, books were already teaching me that people living in very different societies were not nearly as different as we were sometimes encouraged to believe.

Mio, My Son

I read Mio, My Son during one of the darkest periods of my childhood, and perhaps that is why the story resonated with me so deeply.

Mio begins as an ordinary, lonely boy, but finds himself in what I would now call an alternative universe, where he discovers that he is actually a prince. There he has a loving father, a best friend, Jum-Jum, and eventually a mission: to confront the ultimate villain, the evil knight Kato.

In many ways, it is a story as old as storytelling itself — good against evil. But Lindgren fills that ancient story with magic, friendship, hope, and the promise that a better world is possible.

One scene stayed with me particularly strongly. Mio and Jum-Jum are captured by Kato and imprisoned in the Hungry Tower. Kato is certain they will die there. They are locked behind seven locks, guards are everywhere, there is no food, and for a while it seems that everything is lost.

And then a magical little spoon appears.

The spoon feeds the two hungry boys, and they survive.

I loved that scene as a child, and I think I understand it better now. Lindgren never pretends that darkness and evil do not exist. Kato is genuinely frightening, and sometimes Mio’s situation seems completely hopeless. But again and again, help appears — through friendship, kindness, courage, or a little bit of magic.

Perhaps that was exactly what I needed from this book at that particular time in my childhood: the idea that when everything seems lost, the story may not be over yet.

There may still be a little magical spoon.

Selma Lagerlöf

I have never been to Sweden. I have never experienced its landscapes, traveled through its forests, or seen its coastline. And yet Sweden was probably one of the first foreign countries through which I ever traveled.

Selma Lagerlöf took me there.

Looking back, I think The Wonderful Adventures of Nils and The Further Adventures of Nils Holgersson may have been among the books that gave me the travel and exploration bug.

As I understand it now, The Wonderful Adventures of Nils was originally conceived as a geography reader for Swedish schoolchildren. Instead of simply asking children to memorize provinces, rivers, cities, and landscapes, Lagerlöf allowed them to discover their country through the eyes of Nils Holgersson.

Nils begins as a rather mischievous boy who is not particularly kind to either people or animals. After capturing and mistreating a tomte, a little household spirit, he is magically reduced to the size of a thumb. Soon afterward, when the family’s gander Mårten tries to join a flock of migrating wild geese, Nils grabs onto him in an attempt to stop him — and accidentally begins the journey of his life.

Along the way, geography becomes an adventure. Nils sees different regions of Sweden, encounters their people, animals, landscapes, legends, and traditions, and gradually changes himself. The journey teaches him not only about his country, but also about responsibility, friendship, courage, and respect for creatures both great and small.

I didn’t realize as a child that I was reading a geography lesson. I simply wanted to fly with Nils and see what was beyond the horizon.

Perhaps that was the lesson that stayed with me most.

A. A. Milne

Winnie-the-Pooh

Winnie-the-Pooh was read to me before I was able to read myself. It was a big book in my childhood — not simply a collection of funny stories about a bear and his friends, but an entire little world populated by remarkably recognizable personalities.

Long before I learned about the classical temperaments — phlegmatic, melancholic, sanguine, and choleric — I already knew Winnie-the-Pooh, Eeyore, Christopher Robin, and Rabbit. Long before I knew anything about anxiety disorders, I knew Piglet.

Perhaps that is part of Milne’s genius. Children don’t need psychological terminology to recognize personalities. We know the gloomy friend, the anxious friend, the friend who is absolutely certain he knows what he is doing, and the sensible person who eventually arrives and sorts everything out.

And Winnie had a philosophy.

One lesson from the book that stayed with me could be summarized as: it is better to let something else spoil or go to waste than to let it spoil you.

This was surprisingly useful advice for a child growing up in the Soviet Union, where throwing away food was practically a moral offense. Leftovers were expected to be eaten regardless of how long they had been sitting in the refrigerator — and occasionally regardless of how they smelled. Winnie helped convince me that there are circumstances in which the heroic decision is to let the leftovers go.

There was also friendship. Piglet trusts Winnie, perhaps occasionally more than circumstances justify, but remains his loyal friend. Christopher Robin, meanwhile, is the reassuring presence who somehow sorts things out. Always.

I knew the book through Boris Zakhoder’s wonderful Russian translation, Винни-Пух и все-все-все. Much later, when I had children of my own, I bought the original English version as an audiobook, beautifully narrated by Peter Dennis, and played it during our long road trips.

My children loved it too. There was something remarkably calming and comforting about those familiar adventures, and quite often they were sound asleep before we reached the end of a chapter.

I rather like the continuity of that: Winnie-the-Pooh was read aloud to me before I could read, and decades later I was listening to the same stories, now in their original language, with my own children.

I also loved the Soviet animated adaptation of Winnie-the-Pooh, although Christopher Robin never made it into that version. Without him, the stories became almost entirely a little society of animals trying to solve their own problems.

Looking back, Winnie-the-Pooh may have been my first sitcom: the same familiar cast, each with an unmistakable personality, getting themselves into a new predicament in every episode.

But underneath all the comedy, it was always a story about friendship.

And perhaps that is why it was so comforting.

Gianni Rodari

Gianni Rodari was another author my parents read to me before I could read myself. I remember sitting with the book and studying the illustrations so carefully that I wouldn’t let my parents turn the page until I had absorbed every detail.

The Adventures of Cipollino

Cipollino was a wonderfully entertaining story about a little onion fighting injustice and helping his friends.

He also possessed a particularly appropriate superpower. If someone tried to pull his hair, or his scallions, as I learned to call them much later during my culinary adventures, they would immediately regret the decision. They would start crying.

As a child, I mostly saw the adventures. The political message was secondary, although some of it certainly got through. Wealthy characters were generally portrayed as selfish, uncaring, and unwilling to help, while the poor characters were kind, oppressed, and deserving of sympathy.

Only much later did I recognize how much political and class allegory was built into the story.

That realization also affected how I viewed the book as a parent. Although I remembered Cipollino fondly, I chose not to read it to my own children. I wanted them to enjoy stories about friendship, courage, and standing up to bullies, but I was less enthusiastic about teaching them that someone’s wealth or social position tells you what kind of person they are.

The Blue Arrow

Another Rodari story I remember vividly is The Blue Arrow, about a magnificent toy train and railroad set.

As a Soviet boy, of course I dreamed of having toys like that.

In the fairy tale, the Blue Arrow eventually comes to life and makes its way to a poor boy who could never afford such a wonderful toy.

Unfortunately, that poor boy wasn’t me.

I was just another poor boy in the USSR.

Alexei Tolstoy

The Golden Key, or the Adventures of Buratino

Buratino was another trickster from my childhood, and another character I met before I was able to read. My parents read The Golden Key, or the Adventures of Buratino to me, and the idea that an ordinary piece of wood could suddenly become a little boy was both intriguing and enormously entertaining.

Buratino and I also had something in common: neither of us was particularly enthusiastic about going to school.

Given the choice, Buratino would much rather go to the theater. From there, of course, everything becomes considerably more complicated. He makes friends with the actors, gets involved in their struggle against the cruel theater owner Karabas-Barabas, and eventually helps defeat him. The actors are liberated, get their own theater, and live happily ever after.

Looking back, I can certainly see another helping of communist ideology in the story: the oppressive owner is overthrown and the means of production, in this particular case a puppet theater, are transferred to the workers.

None of that particularly concerned me as a child.

What fascinated me was Buratino himself. He wasn’t a perfect little hero who always knew what to do. He was naive and inexperienced, made terrible decisions, trusted people he shouldn’t have trusted, and repeatedly got himself into trouble.

But he learned.

With every mistake, Buratino became a little less naive and a little more street-smart. Eventually he learned enough about the world to recognize the crooks, outwit them, and turn the tables on people who had originally taken advantage of him.

Only much later did I learn that Alexei Tolstoy’s story originated with Carlo Collodi’s The Adventures of Pinocchio. Interestingly, I have never actually read the original Pinocchio, so I can’t honestly compare the two books.

Perhaps someday I will.

It sounds like a good book to read to my grandchildren.

Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog)

While life is serious and often full of tragedy and drama, I also enjoy books that lift the spirits with simple comedy and humor. One of those books is Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog), written by Jerome K. Jerome and published in 1889.

Jerome was originally asked to write a travel guide about the River Thames. I can easily imagine another writer producing a long, boring, and absolutely dull book filled with historical references, descriptions of nature and weather, measurements of the river’s current, and average monthly temperatures.

Instead, Jerome wrote something completely different: a fictional account of four friends (one of whom has four legs) traveling along the Thames.

The story constantly wanders into digressions that seem unrelated to the main plot, yet somehow those distractions become the best parts of the book. Thanks to Jerome’s talent, the novel remains a reliable source of laughter and good mood for me.

Even today I can quote entire passages by memory — the famous Irish stew, the legendary cheese with a two-hundred-horsepower scent, and of course Uncle Podger, a character whose name we still use whenever someone tries to fix something and somehow manages to involve every single person in the household.

Perhaps the reason the book still works more than a century later is that the characters feel completely modern. Their laziness, enthusiasm, misplaced confidence, and endless ability to complicate simple tasks are instantly recognizable. Technology changes, but human nature does not. Jerome understood this perfectly — and that is why the book remains funny long after Victorian England has faded into history.

Adventure & Survival

Robinson Crusoe

Robinson Crusoe is another all-time favorite of mine. Written by Daniel Defoe and first published in 1719, the novel tells the story of a man who survives a shipwreck and lives alone on a deserted island for twenty-eight years.

My first impression of the story came from a children’s adaptation. In the Soviet Union, such adaptations usually excluded references to God or religion, so I was later surprised to discover how prominent they are in the original novel.

What mattered to me then — and still does today — is that the story is fundamentally about survival, ingenuity, and hard work. Crusoe slowly builds a life for himself using patience, creativity, and relentless effort.

While the novel has inspired many film adaptations, the modern work that best captures its spirit for me is Cast Away with Tom Hanks. The film reflects something about our own time: a society that is highly goal-oriented, driven by schedules and deadlines, and prone to wasteful habits. In the process, we sometimes forget how to live simply and appreciate the small pleasures of life.

Treasure Island

I first read Treasure Island in early middle school, and for boys of that age growing up in the USSR it was pure magic.

Treasure hunts, old maps, secret clues, hidden islands, mutiny, and buried gold — this was exactly the kind of world that spilled out of books and into real life. My schoolmates, neighborhood boys, and I played treasure-hunting games all the time, drawing maps, inventing secret signs, and hiding “treasures” in courtyards, garages, and nearby woods.

The fascination was never just the pirates themselves. It was the mystery of clues, the thrill of decoding maps, and the idea that adventure might be hiding just beyond the next corner.

A small life lesson came with this book as well. Our librarian once gave me advice that stayed with me forever:

When you go to the shelves, find the book with the most worn-out cover. That’s the one you want to read.

That was how I found some of my favorite books, including this one.

Captain Blood

I came to Captain Blood a little later, in high school. Perhaps it was slightly late for the full pirate-romantic effect, but I still enjoyed it tremendously.

Peter Blood is one of those rare literary heroes who combines courage with intelligence. He begins as a physician, is swept into injustice and exile, and reinvents himself through skill, discipline, and leadership at sea.

At the time I had not yet chosen medicine as a career, but looking back, I sometimes wonder whether the image of a physician navigating chaos, danger, and impossible circumstances left a deeper mark on me than I realized.

Perhaps it did.

The Geography of Bliss

I first learned about this book while watching The Colbert Report, where the author, Eric Weiner, gave a short interview to Stephen Colbert. It was funny. Then I listened to the book, and it turned out to be not only funny but also deeply resonant with my own philosophy of life.

This is another book I keep recommending to friends and family so often that my wife has forbidden me to mention it again. Thank god for this website. Now I can simply refer people here and recommend a book that teaches us to cherish the little things in life and stop chasing expensive cars, watches, and pens.

Science Fiction

Jules Verne

I don’t remember whether I read Jules Verne first or H. G. Wells. Both are often considered the fathers of science fiction. The main difference between them, at least in my mind, is that Jules Verne tended to write about things that eventually did happen.

He imagined the practical invention of the submarine long before it became reality. In Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Captain Nemo commands the Nautilus, using it both for exploration and for helping oppressed peoples fight for freedom. Verne also wrote about air travel and even journeys to the Moon long before such things became technologically possible.

Herbert G. Wells

And then there is H. G. Wells, who wrote about things that, thankfully, never happened — at least as far as we know.

He imagined alien invasions of Earth, the invention of a time machine, and even human invisibility long before James Bond received his first invisible car.

As a side note: in 1938 Orson Welles produced a famous radio adaptation of
The War of the Worlds.

It was broadcast in the style of breaking news reports describing a Martian invasion. Because of its realism, some listeners believed the events were actually happening, leading to a brief but memorable wave of public panic.

Isaac Asimov

Isaac Asimov was born in a Jewish family in what is now the Russian Federation, and his family immigrated to the U.S. when he was a toddler. A first-generation immigrant and lifelong learner, he originally hoped to become a physician but was not accepted into medical school. Instead, he became a biochemistry professor at Boston University — a fortunate turn for literature, as it allowed him the freedom to write prolifically.

While he is best known for his Foundation series, which earned him a Hugo Award, I’m most drawn to I, Robot. There, Asimov not only imagined artificial intelligence but also anticipated its ethical dilemmas. His famous Three Laws of Robotics are still referenced today in discussions about AI ethics and safety.

What I admire most is how his work extends beyond science fiction: in essays and lectures like The Future of Humanity, Asimov addressed overpopulation, gender equity, sustainable technology, and even early concerns about climate instability (which, in the 1970s, included global cooling). He understood that progress isn’t just technological. It has social and ethical sides, too.

“Self-education is, I firmly believe, the only kind of education there is.” – Isaac Asimov

Bonus 1: Isaac Asimov’s Vision Of The Future Letterman
Bonus 2: Isaac Asimov Predicts the Future (1978)

Stanisław Lem

Stanisław Lem, like Asimov, was one of the great 20th-century writers of speculative fiction — and also of Jewish descent. Born in Lwów (now Lviv, Ukraine), he studied medicine at the Jagiellonian University in Kraków under pressure from his father. Though he completed the coursework, he refused to take the final diploma, opting instead for an absolutorium. He briefly worked in an obstetrics ward but ultimately abandoned medicine to write full time. We’re lucky he did.

Lem had a relentless imagination and a sharp wit, and both are fully present in his writing. While Solaris remains his best-known work — and one of my favorites — I first encountered Lem through Tales of Pirx the Pilot. That collection follows a young space cadet evolving into a seasoned professional, subtly exploring human nature, decision-making under uncertainty, and repeated confrontations with artificial intelligence.

In The Invincible, Lem dives into swarm intelligence and AI’s capacity for independent evolution, decades before these ideas became widespread. Meanwhile, The Star Diaries of Ijon Tichy offer comical, satirical tales of a self-important space traveler who finds himself bumbling through alien civilizations, highlighting absurdities of both human and extraterrestrial societies.

“Futurology is much more about us than about the future.” – Stanisław Lem

Robert Sheckley

In my opinion, Robert Sheckley is the most American science fiction writer ever. His short stories felt unmistakably foreign when I first read them in middle and high school in the USSR, yet the humor was completely universal. He combined speculative imagination with irony, absurdity, and a deep understanding of how irrational systems can still feel strangely believable.

His stories often begin with a simple futuristic premise and then spiral into social satire, exposing how human greed, bureaucracy, vanity, or blind adherence to rules can make even advanced civilizations behave ridiculously.

One of my favorites is The Tenth Victim, where violence is transformed into an organized social institution. It is clever, darkly funny, and still feels surprisingly modern in an age of entertainment-driven culture.

Another unforgettable story is A Ticket to Tranai, which begins as a search for a perfect utopian society and gradually reveals that every “ideal” system hides absurd trade-offs and unintended consequences. For someone interested in decision-making and systems design, that one is especially delightful.

Another story that deeply resonates with me is Prospector’s Special. It takes place during a gold rush on Venus, where prospectors keep talking about a mysterious luxury drink supposedly ordered by only the luckiest gold finders, yet no one seems to have actually tried it. Intrigued? Go on — it’s a short read.

I also loved his stories about Gregor and Arnold from the AAA Ace Interplanetary Decontamination Service. The two partners constantly get into trouble thanks to their adventurous spirit, but usually find a way out using mostly street smarts and improvisation. The stories I especially enjoyed were The Laxian Key, The Lifeboat Mutiny, and The Necessary Thing.

Bad Medicine is another Sheckley story that resonates with me on a very personal level. It reminds me of provider bias — those moments when we approach a patient whose symptoms do not neatly fit our prior beliefs, expectations, or diagnostic habits.

What makes Sheckley memorable for me is that beneath the humor there is always something deeper: a reminder that systems are only as rational as the people who build them, and that it is always worth taking a second look at our own coordinates.

Douglas Adams

A long time ago, almost immediately after the 9/11 attacks, I had to write a set of workplace instructions for emergency situations—things like bomb threats, major fires, and other truly unpleasant scenarios.

Every single one of those instructions began with:

#1. PLEASE DO NOT PANIC.

At the time, I thought I was being practical. Roughly ten years later, I discovered Douglas Adams and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, where the fictional Guide itself famously begins with the words:

“DON’T PANIC”

written in large, friendly letters.

That alone made me feel an immediate connection.

Adams created a universe where bureaucracy, absurdity, and cosmic indifference are treated with complete seriousness—which somehow makes them even funnier. His writing is deeply sarcastic, but never bitter. He understands that most systems, whether interstellar governments or hospital administration, are held together by improvisation, misplaced confidence, and people pretending they know what they are doing.

This is one reason I tend to believe Adams when, in response to being accused of borrowing ideas from Robert Sheckley, he said he had not actually read Sheckley before writing his own work. There are similarities—especially the satire of bureaucracy and absurd systems—but Adams remains unmistakably British. His humor is drier, quieter, and delivered with the kind of polite calm that makes catastrophe somehow feel civilized.

I highly recommend The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

It is best enjoyed with a proper cup of tea.

Classics

Anton Chekhov

Born in 1860 in the port city of Taganrog near the Azov Sea, Anton Chekhov lived a short but profoundly productive life. Like many authors on this list, Chekhov was drawn to medicine and became a physician — a vocation he practiced even as he built one of the greatest literary legacies in modern literature.

Chekhov began writing out of financial necessity during his medical studies. What started as humor pieces in magazines quickly evolved into a new form of storytelling. He mastered the art of the short story, often writing about the “little man”: someone who does not shape history and will never appear in biographies, but still lives, struggles, hopes, and quietly disappears from the world.

Tragically, Chekhov suffered from tuberculosis for much of his adult life and died in 1904 at the age of 44. He once wrote: “Medicine is my lawful wife and literature is my mistress.” But in truth, he honored them both.

“Man will become better when you show him what he is like.” – Anton Chekhov

Mikhail Bulgakov

Mikhail Bulgakov was born in Kyiv in 1891. He graduated with honors from the Kyiv University School of Medicine and began practicing as a zemsky doctor — a rural physician responsible for all aspects of care, from surgery to infectious disease to trauma, often with minimal resources and complete isolation.

I first encountered Bulgakov as a paramedic student in Russia, exhausted after a grueling 24-hour shift. It was then that I found A Young Doctor’s Notebook. In its crude medical settings and emotional honesty, I saw my own experience mirrored. The connection was instant and enduring.

And then, of course, there is The Master and Margarita. A novel like no other — surreal, satirical, metaphysical, political, and strangely tender.

“Manuscripts don’t burn.” – Mikhail Bulgakov

Historical Novels

Alexandre Dumas

When I think of dignity and grace, the name Athos comes to mind. For loyalty, it is Porthos. For bold action — D’Artagnan. For an upper echelon’s intrigue with subtle, chess-like moves — Aramis. And when I think of revenge, I think of The Count of Monte Cristo.

Although, personally, I see Monte Cristo less as a story of revenge and more as a story of a man who refuses to surrender, even under extraordinary misfortune. Edmond Dantès loses everything, yet instead of breaking, he uses time, knowledge, patience, and discipline to reinvent himself.

What makes both The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo especially interesting is that both were, as we would say today, “inspired by real events.”

The Three Musketeers was based on a semi-fictional work by Gatien de Courtilz de Sandras called Mémoires de M. d’Artagnan, published almost thirty years after the death of the real d’Artagnan.

Courtilz himself was imprisoned in the Bastille several times, where he met Besmaux, a former companion of d’Artagnan. There he heard stories of the famous musketeer’s adventures — some real, some likely invented simply to pass the time in a prison cell.

The memoirs were published with little initial attention, until Alexandre Dumas discovered them and transformed them into literature. He presented them almost as historical accounts, though he certainly “improved” them. How much improvement was truly necessary is hard to say, because d’Artagnan himself was a very real historical figure with a life already full of adventure.

What Dumas unquestionably added was the emotional architecture: tragic romance, unforgettable dialogues, vivid sword fights, and the rhythm of a great adventure novel that made the story irresistible to 19th-century readers.

The real d’Artagnan served not only as a musketeer but also in intelligence work for Cardinal Mazarin. Later, he helped reorganize the restored Musketeers Regiment, eventually serving as captain-lieutenant. He died in battle during the Siege of Maastricht in 1673, struck in the throat by a musket shot.

Interestingly, in March 2026, reports emerged that remains believed to be his may have been found beneath the altar of Saint Peter and Paul Church in Wolder, with DNA testing currently underway.

The Count of Monte Cristo also has roots in historical material — this time from a criminal archive.

The original story came from a case recorded by Jacques Peuchet, a French police archivist, who published it in the early 19th century. It concerned a shoemaker named Pierre Picaud, who was falsely imprisoned after being betrayed by friends motivated by jealousy and greed. After his release, he sought revenge and, yes, even in the original archive, there was a hidden treasure.

But like many archives, it was full of tedious details and lacking literary life.

Once again, Dumas took the raw material, removed the distractions, elevated the social world (because not too many people wanted to read about a shoemaker), added romance, sharpened the dialogue, and constructed the twists and dramatic turns that converted it into a masterpiece.

And here comes the final irony: modern historians suspect that Pierre Picaud himself may also have been fictional.

It seems that working as a police archivist can stimulate the imagination — but it still takes a writer like Dumas to turn records into a legend.

“All for one and one for all.” – The Three Musketeers

Mysteries & Thrillers

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

You can’t talk about mysteries and thrillers without including Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He didn’t just create Sherlock Holmes — he created the modern detective story.

In 1876, while studying medicine at the University of Edinburgh, Conan Doyle met Dr. Joseph Bell, a professor of surgery whose remarkable diagnostic skills came from his keen observation of tiny details. Bell could deduce a patient’s background, occupation, and illness from a few simple clues — and this fascinated Doyle. The idea of applying that kind of logic to crime solving eventually germinated into the character of Sherlock Holmes.

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” – Sherlock Holmes

John le Carré

John le Carré was one of my later literary discoveries. His insider knowledge of British intelligence shaped a body of fiction unlike anything else in the genre. His writing is subtle — much of the meaning is implied, becoming fully clear only at the culmination of the plot. His spy world runs on a cruel but consistent moral code.

“The secret world is the real world.” – John le Carré

Robert Littell

We know surprisingly little about Robert Littell — which somehow feels fitting. Born in 1935 in Brooklyn, New York, to a Jewish family of Russian descent, he served in the U.S. Navy, worked as a journalist, and then began writing fiction about the CIA and the Soviet Union with such precision and intimacy that it’s hard to believe he wasn’t part of the cloak-and-dagger world himself.

My first encounter with his work was The Company: A Novel of the CIA. The book is such a gripping read — or listen — that I nearly got into an accident driving to work.

Drama

William Shakespeare

What’s in a name? asks Juliet in Act II, Scene 2 of Romeo and Juliet… Well, everything, and nothing. William Shakespeare is the greatest name in world drama, but his true identity remains a mystery.

What matters is the work. I’ve enjoyed Shakespeare both in masterful Russian translations and in the original English — often with commentary or performance, thanks to modern technology.

My favorites include

  • Sonnets
  • Romeo and Juliet
  • King Lear
  • Othello
  • Hamlet

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose 🌹
By any other name would smell as sweet.”
– Romeo and Juliet

Magical Realism

In my early youth I was something of a literary purist. I divided literature into realistic fiction, science fiction, and “magic.” But the world of literature turned out to be more complicated — and more beautiful for it.

There exists a special category where reality intertwines with magic, where everyday life is pierced by dreams, spirits, parallel dimensions, or inexplicable truths, and where the characters accept these strangenesses as part of life. This genre is known as magical realism.

That’s where I discovered three extraordinary authors:

Gabriel García Márquez

My first encounter with Gabriel García Márquez was through One Hundred Years of Solitude — the novel that brought him international acclaim and the Nobel Prize in Literature.

To put it bluntly: this was not an easy read.

In hindsight, I’d recommend starting with Living to Tell the Tale, a memoir that gently introduces you into his world.

Haruki Murakami

If Latin American magical realism feels like a flamboyant carnival, then the Japanese take, as written by Haruki Murakami, is more like a carefully inked scroll. Every word is placed with the accuracy and silence of traditional calligraphy.

What excites me most in Murakami’s writing are his quotes — moments when the prose lifts off the page and delivers a truth so precise, it stops you in your tracks.

“It’s like Tolstoy said. Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness is a story.”
― Kafka on the Shore

“I dream. Sometimes I think that’s the only right thing to do.”
― Sputnik Sweetheart

“Don’t feel sorry for yourself. Only assholes do that.”
― Norwegian Wood

“If you can love someone with your whole heart, even one person, then there’s salvation in life. Even if you can’t get together with that person.”
― 1Q84

“Is it possible, in the final analysis, for one human being to achieve perfect understanding of another?”
― The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

Books by Explorers and Scientists

These books have always occupied a special place on my bookshelf — virtual now, though no less treasured. I often return to them because the glimpses they offer into the authors’ perceptions of the world, and of themselves, are both humbling and deeply inspirational.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Most people know Antoine de Saint-Exupéry as the author of The Little Prince. While that masterpiece certainly deserves its reputation, it was only one part of an extraordinary life and literary legacy.

Saint-Exupéry lived during the dangerous early years of aviation, when aircraft were fragile, unreliable, and often lethal. He participated directly in the development of long-distance flight routes and survived multiple crashes and near-fatal incidents.

His books are not merely about airplanes. They are about people willing to risk their lives daily to deliver mail across deserts, mountains, and oceans. They are about duty, loneliness, friendship, courage, and the fragile beauty of our planet when seen from above.

His writing style is unmistakably French: philosophical, elegant, and reflective.

During World War II he served as a reconnaissance pilot for Free France and disappeared during a mission on July 31, 1944. Decades later, a silver bracelet bearing his name and debris from his aircraft were discovered off the coast of Marseille.

Jacques Cousteau

Seventy-one percent of Earth’s surface is covered by water, yet for most of human history it remained almost completely inaccessible.

Jacques Cousteau originally hoped to become a pilot, but injuries sustained in a car accident changed the course of his life. While serving in the French Navy, he began experimenting with underwater breathing systems and eventually co-developed the SCUBA apparatus — or Aqua-Lung — which opened the underwater world to exploration on an unprecedented scale.

Given command of the research vessel Calypso, Cousteau became one of the great explorers of the twentieth century. His work helped popularize oceanography, marine biology, underwater archaeology, and environmental conservation. He was also an early public voice warning about ocean pollution and radioactive waste.

What I love about his books is their spirit of practical curiosity. The underwater world is presented not as fantasy, but as a living system waiting to be understood. Problems are approached matter-of-factly: we encountered this obstacle, discussed it, improvised, and solved it. I deeply enjoy that style of troubleshooting.

The books are also filled with remarkable underwater photography that, at the time, revealed a world most people had never seen.

Richard Feynman

Richard Feynman is often remembered as one of the greatest physicists of the twentieth century, but he was also a brilliant storyteller.

Raised in a family that valued curiosity and education, he studied at MIT and Princeton before joining the Manhattan Project during World War II.

What stayed with me most from his writings are two recurring themes.

First: always ask why. Never accept “that’s just how things are done” as a sufficient explanation.

Second: social conventions, politeness, and institutional habits often interfere with our ability to understand reality clearly.

Feynman writes about science, naturally, but also about people: the strange personalities around him, the absurdities of bureaucracy, practical problem-solving, safecracking at Los Alamos, music, teaching, and the joy of figuring things out.

His books remind me that intelligence and curiosity are not the same thing — and that curiosity is often more important.

Gerald Durrell

The Durrell family was wonderfully eccentric, but Gerald Durrell himself deserves special attention.

Although largely homeschooled and lacking formal academic training, his passion for zoology was so profound that he became one of the great naturalists and conservationists of his era.

Durrell founded his own zoo and traveled extensively collecting animals, often under chaotic and hilarious circumstances. His books combine natural history, travel writing, comedy, and autobiography in a way that feels completely unique.

What makes his writing especially memorable is the warmth with which he describes both animals and people. Even the most absurd characters are treated with affection.

At the same time, it is important to remember that Durrell struggled with alcohol use disorder, and some aspects of his lifestyle are perhaps better admired from a safe literary distance.

During his childhood the family lived on Corfu, an experience immortalized in My Family and Other Animals. If you prefer television adaptations, The Durrells in Corfu captures much of the same charm.

Dystopian Literature

As someone who spent part of his life in the Soviet Union, I have always been drawn to dystopian literature.

What fascinates me is that the best dystopian novels are rarely about the future. They are usually about the present. The future merely provides a safe distance from which to examine uncomfortable truths about power, conformity, censorship, ideology, and human nature.

Many of these books became especially meaningful to me after immigrating to the United States. Some helped me understand the society I had left behind. Others helped me appreciate the freedoms I had previously taken for granted.

Ray Bradbury

My introduction to dystopian literature was Fahrenheit 451.

The novel was written in 1953. The location is somewhere in USA, the time is in a near future. Maybe late 20th, maybe 21st century. The premise is that books became forbidden in the society because they make people ask not “how” but “why” questions. And the “why” question is the most dangerous question, because it makes people question everything, including authority.

The main character is a fireman, but he is not extinguishing fires but rather starts them by burning the books. The book catches fire at 451 degrees Fahrenheit (or so Ray Bradbury was told), hence the name of the novel. The irony is that this book was highly popular in the Soviet Union, although there were very strict and omnipotent censorship and many other authors and many books were prohibited, but this one escaped through the gaps in the system and made me think about the “why” questions.

I loved this one and enjoyed it in middle school, as well as recently, when I listened it in its’ original language, as intended by the author.

Bradbury is one of my favorite american authors and there are more stories I recommend:

  • The Martian Chronicles
  • The Illustrated Man
  • The October Country
  • The Halloween Tree
  • Something Wicked This Way Comes
  • Dandelion Wine

George Orwell

The next two books come from the same author: George Orwell.

Naturally he was prohibited in USSR, however his books leaked in through the censorship and quotes, such as “all animals are equal, but some are more equal than others”, “Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four”, “War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.”, and the famous “Ministry of Love”, “Ministry of Truth” …

The Animal Farm was the first book I’ve read in English outside of classroom required reading. If only I could read it back in high school, the myth of the Great October Revolution which brought equality and destroyed exploiting humans by other humans was immediately shattered because this was such a vivid and truthful account that I can easily understand why this was banned in USSR. The premise of the book is what animals make a revolution and pigs take over the management of the animal farm. And then the story of deceit and power struggle unfolds.

The second book by George Orwell is famous 1984.

The setting is in near future in Great Britain, when it falls and becomes a totalitarian regime in a perpetual war with another country. The government controls everything: the food rations, the living conditions, the language, the stories published in the newspapers, the historical accounts, which The Ministry of Truth meticulously cleans up to match the existing present time, the sexual relationships between citizens, and their thoughts. The surveillance is omnipresent and citizens should always have TV on, because this is how the government is able to see them. The government also imposes “doublethink”: this is to know two opposing facts, which cancel each out, but believing in both simultaneously. This is a powerful read, I highly recommend it.

Orwell himself participated in Spanish Civil War (1936-1939), served in the International Brigades, was wounded in the neck and had first-hand account of serving in pro-soviet communists organized military unit, where he quickly realized there is not much difference between the two ideologies and their methods as well. This experience made his dystopian books so spot on accurate.

As an author, Orwell is cherished by me not only by his political stand, but also by his writing style. Every sentence has a purpose. Every word has its place.

Other works I recommend:

  • Down and Out in Paris and London
  • Homage to Catalonia

Aldous Huxley

Brave New World by Aldous Huxley has got to be included in my list. Did you ever dream of the world, where educated people are promoted in the social hierarchy and that improves the political and economical decisions of the government? Then the genetically engineered, grown in the hatcheries, and psychologically conditioned humans can pursue happiness through consumerism and personal pleasures? Well, this novel is right for you, then!

This is mostly how the Soviet propaganda pictured the future for the Soviet people: the world is sterile, the people are grown by special educators, they are promoted by intellectual achievements, the machines are doing all the dirty work… Well, follow the main characters Bernard Marx and Lenina Crowne as they visit the “Salvage Reservation” and get an unexpected outsider’s views by a person, who wasn’t indoctrinated with the same social values.

Many readers compare Orwell and Huxley. Orwell feared a society controlled by fear. Huxley feared a society controlled by comfort.

Aldos Huxley is one of my newer discoveries, I don’t have any other books to recommend yet, but on my to read list I have:

  • Brave New World Revisited

Robert A. Heinlein

Stranger in a Strange Land, by Robert A. Heinlein is also a book about a person, who was grown up and whose views were formed by another civilization, in this case Martian, that was before we knew Mars is not habitable) and he brings new customs and new ideas to Earth. The novel seems to reflect a lot of hippie’s culture, which is not surprising for it was published in 1961.

Other books by Robert A. Heinlein I recommend:

  • Have Space Suit, Will Travel

Vladimir Voinovich

I decided to keep Russian authors to a minimum on this page, partly due to Russia’s use of literature in pursuit of their political propaganda and expansive wars. For some reason they believe the literary achievement of Russian-speaking authors give them special rights. However, my review of the dystopian literature will not be complete without mentioning Vladimir Voinovich and his novel Moscow, 2042.

In this novel author time-travels to dystopian future Moscow ruled by a merged KGB-Communist Party conglomerate. The leader of the new Russia strongly resembles current Russian self-proclaimed president Vladimir Putin supported by Pope Zvezdoniy, who is an atheist, yet a religious leader, who also resembles current clerical leadership. They are living in a strange an economically stagnant totalitarian Russia… The book so closely depicts today’s conditions of Russian Federation that it was prophetic. It is darkly satirical and genuinely funny, unfortunately most Russians didn’t read it.

The other books by this author is a trilogy:

  • The Life and Extraordinary Adventures of Private Ivan Chonkin
  • Pretender to the Throne
  • A Displaced Person

The book takes place in Soviet Union during WW2. Drafted into Red Army, forgotten by his unit, trying to survive, while guarding a forgotten and useless downed plane he meets a series of misunderstandings and bureaucracy, while trying to survive and carry out his mission. It is as anti-war as dystopian and true at the same time. To give you the taste of his satire, here are a couple of quotes just to give you the taste of the book:

But unfortunately, the business side of the collective farm was performing poorly. Well, not too bad, to be exact. In fact, one might even say it was doing reasonably well. The only problem was that every year it did worse than the year before.

A meeting is an arrangement whereby a large number of people gather together, some to say what they really do not think, some not to say what they really do.

  • “Little girl, whom do you love more: your mom, or your dad?”
  • “I love Stalin!”, said little girl and ran away

Recommended works:

  • Moscow 2042
  • The Life and Extraordinary Adventures of Private Ivan Chonkin
  • Pretender to the Throne
  • A Displaced Person

Authors, Backgrounds, and Their Dystopias

One of the things I find fascinating about dystopian literature is how strongly each author’s background shaped the world they imagined.

Aldous Huxley was educated at Oxford and came from one of Britain’s most distinguished intellectual families. His dystopia is philosophical and social. He worried less about police and prisons than about a society that willingly trades freedom for comfort, pleasure, and convenience.

Robert Heinlein graduated from the United States Naval Academy with what would today be roughly considered a degree in engineering. His writing reflects the perspective of a military officer and engineer: practical, structured, and interested in how societies organize themselves and maintain order. Even when I disagree with his conclusions, I find his thought experiments fascinating.

Ray Bradbury never attended college. Instead, he famously said that he graduated from the library, spending three days a week for ten years reading voraciously and educating himself. His dystopias are deeply humanistic. In Fahrenheit 451, books are dangerous not because they contain specific ideas, but because they teach people to ask questions and think independently.

George Orwell worked as a colonial police officer in Burma, fought in the Spanish Civil War, and later worked as a teacher and journalist. He understood both the machinery of power and the vulnerabilities of ordinary people. That experience gave Animal Farm and 1984 an authenticity that still feels unsettling today.

Vladimir Voinovich was trained as a history teacher and lived much of his life inside the Soviet system he later satirized. His dystopias are rooted not in abstract political theory but in everyday absurdities: bureaucracy, corruption, incompetence, and the strange ways people adapt to authoritarianism.

Each of these authors looked at the same question through a different lens: what happens when a society loses its way? The answers they arrived at were very different, and perhaps that is why these books remain so valuable. They remind us that there is more than one path to a dystopia.

Future reading

A few readers have asked why We by Yevgeny Zamyatin is not included on this list. The answer is simple: I have not read it yet. The same goes for White Noise by Don DeLillo. Both remain on my ever-growing “to be read” virtual shelf.

One of the pleasures of maintaining this page is being reminded that there are always more books waiting to be discovered.

Books About Decision-Making

Decision-making has fascinated me for many years. I’ll skip the textbooks here, but there are a few accessible books you might consider.

How We Decide

This is a well-written and easy-to-read book. However, the author, Jonah Lehrer, was later criticized for misrepresenting several sources. Knowing this, please make an informed decision about whether you’d like to read it.

A few points I still found valuable:

  1. Emotions play an important role in decision-making
  2. Some decisions should be logical and analytical, but others depend on emotional wisdom
  3. If intuition (based on experience) turns on an alarm, it’s worth taking a second look

Thinking, Fast and Slow

A classic exploration of “System 1” (fast, intuitive) and “System 2” (slow, deliberate) thinking — and why both matter.

Dan Ariely

  • Predictably Irrational
  • The Upside of Irrationality
  • The (Honest) Truth About Dishonesty