100 books like Cathedral

Watson is both a talented artist and woodworker. He combines those skills in a number of books, but our favorite is Hand Tools. Everyone needs at least some hand tools in their shop, and they should know how to use them properly. Watson’s book contains 450 beautiful hand-drawn illustrations, in pencil, that beg to be framed and hung on the wall. The writing is close behind. 

Eric Sloane’s books are a celebration of early American life and have a historical bent that nicely complements the artwork. Here, too, it was hard to pick which of his books rose to the top for us.  Reverence for Wood speaks to values that are enduring through the ages and will resonate with other traditional builders as they do with us. Sloane’s writing, and his illustrations, are beautiful.

This is an outlier that maybe not many have heard about or read. It features two award-winning designers who define, and illustrate, some 200 “rules of good architecture”. The artwork and lettering are by Malcolm Wells—an architect well-known for his sharp wit and off-beat leanings (underground houses being one). The messaging is accurate and timeless. The tone is light, as is the author’s back-and-forth banter. Wells’s illustrations bring the message home with clarity and force. It is a book that is at the same time funny, useful, and beautiful. Good luck finding one! 

This is an oldie but goodie. It speaks to our own love of simple structures, designed to get you out in nature. The illustrations are simpler but fit in very well with the language of the era, and the personal philosophy of the author. There are floor plans, cabin renderings, and many smaller illustrations of the tools and furnishings that might go into a simple cabin. It is more than a how-to book. It is a celebration of cabin-living writ large. 

Elizabeth Goudge’s novels have a touch of magic about them.

Set in the 1870s, in an English town, dominated by a great cathedral, it's the story of an unlikely friendship between an obscure watchmaker and the mighty but shy Dean Ayscough which touches and shapes the lives of many people. A novel peopled by characters that are hard to forget.

I laughed out loud as I joined this family of twelve children on cramped car trips, through childhood pranks, adolescent rebellion, and through the daily joys and growing pains of a loud and loving family. My dad is one of eleven children and reading this book reminds me of many of his stories about growing up. I especially related to the clatter of dinner time conversation centered around morse code or math games. We never did morse code but we’ve played plenty of math games and word riddles.

Despite his success as a spy/thriller novelist, Ken Follett had trouble finding a publisher when he tried his hand at historical fiction. Fortunately, he persisted and published this book, which outsold every novel he'd ever written.

When it was first released, my wife refused to let me read it as I was in the midst of writing my own book. “It’s too similar to your story,” she said. It may throw you off.” Although set several centuries after my book's story, the world had changed little and featured similar conflicts between pagans and the church. Where my book tells the story of what happens to Charles Martel's family upon his death, Pillars tells the story of Britain after the loss of a host of nobles, including the heir to the British throne, on a boat that sank in the English Channel. 

It's a great book, a fun read, and it… show more.

By its very nature, poetry is about compression. At its best — again, at least to me — a great poem opens up over and over as you read and reread it. It’s a constant journey of discovery. And Northern Ireland’s Philip Larkin, the best English-speaking poet of the 20th century that most Americans have never read, is a master of the compressive arts. I’m recommending his entire Collected Poems here, but if you read only one Larkin poem, make it “Church Going.” In 474 carefully chosen words describing his visit to a mostly abandoned country cathedral, Larkin delivers the equivalent of a 10,000-word treatise on the state of religion in the Western World today.

Golding was living in Salisbury when he wrote The Lord of the Flies, and his day job as a teacher at a local boys' school left a clear imprint on his dystopic view of young men left to their own hierarchical devices. But the classroom also provided a very literal view of the inspiration for The Spire, a dense and disturbing parable in which rationality and physics crumble under evangelical mania and corporal lust. It is the story of Jocelin, Dean of a medieval cathedral, who, obsessed with a divine “vision in stone,” insists that the spire be raised to impossible heights. There is no happy ending in this cautionary tale of construction hubris, yet I return to it regularly in search of solace.

There is so much going on in this book in terms of plot, drama, and relationships, but why I especially love it is because Caris, one of the protagonists, breaks the mold of the typical powerless medieval woman. When the Black Plague comes to Kingsbridge, Caris is the only one who uses observation and common sense to realize that the disease spreads by contact. In a world that revolves around religion and superstition, this doesn’t go over well. Though forced to sacrifice the love of her life, and put on trial as a witch, Caris sticks to her guns and enacts the medical policies she knows will save lives. Eventually, she gains the townspeople’s trust, ultimately ascending into a position of power within the town. Get it, girl!