Genres

1970s

Lists

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Rendezvous with Rama by Arthur C. Clarke

Classic Science Fiction - 1970-1979

272 books — 247 voters

I Never Promised You a Rose Garden by Hannah Green

That Was Then, This Is Now by S.E. Hinton

Steffie Can't Come Out to Play by Fran Arrick

Classic Teens in Trouble

270 books — 70 voters

Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH by Robert C. O'Brien

Children's Fantasy of the 1970s

158 books — 64 voters

2026: What Women Born In The 1970s Have Read So Far This Year

1,867 books — 182 voters

Daisy Jones & The Six by Taylor Jenkins Reid

Best Fiction Books About The 70's

89 books — 62 voters

My Beautiful Hippie by Janet Nichols Lynch

Hippie Fiction

165 books — 17 voters

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66 New Paperbacks to Throw in Your Bag and Take With You

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“ I went to the room in Great Jones Street, a small crooked room, cold as a penny, looking out on warehouses, trucks and rubble. There was snow on the windowledge. Some rags and an unloved ruffled shirt of mine had been stuffed into places where the window frame was warped and cold air entered. The refrigerator was unplugged, full of record albums, tapes, and old magazines. I went to the sink and turned on both taps all the way, drawing an intermittent trickle. Least is best. I tried the radio, pi I went to the room in Great Jones Street, a small crooked room, cold as a penny, looking out on warehouses, trucks and rubble. There was snow on the windowledge. Some rags and an unloved ruffled shirt of mine had been stuffed into places where the window frame was warped and cold air entered. The refrigerator was unplugged, full of record albums, tapes, and old magazines. I went to the sink and turned on both taps all the way, drawing an intermittent trickle. Least is best. I tried the radio, picking up AM only at the top of the dial, FM not at all." The industrial loft buildings along Great Jones seemed misproportioned, broad structures half as tall as they should have been, as if deprived of light by the great skyscraper ranges to the north and south." Transparanoia owns this building," he said. She wanted to be lead singer in a coke-snorting hard-rock band but was prepared to be content beating a tambourine at studio parties. Her mind was exceptional, a fact she preferred to ignore. All she desired was the brute electricity of that sound. To make the men who made it. To keep moving. To forget everything. To be that sound. That was the only tide she heeded. She wanted to exist as music does, nowhere, beyond maps of language. Opal knew almost every important figure in the business, in the culture, in the various subcultures. But she had no talent as a performer, not the slightest, and so drifted along the jet trajectories from band to band, keeping near the fervers of her love, that obliterating sound, until we met eventually in Mexico, in somebody's sister's bed, where the tiny surprise of her name, dropping like a pebble on chrome, brought our incoherent night to proper conclusion, the first of all the rest, transactions in reciprocal tourism. She was beautiful in a neutral way, emitting no light, defining herself in terms of attrition, a skinny thing, near blond, far beyond recall from the hard-edged rhythms of her life, Southwestern woman, hard to remember and forget...There was never a moment between us that did not measure the extent of our true connection. To go harder, take more, die first. ...more ”
― Don DeLillo, Great Jones Street

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