Genres

1970s

Lists

All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr

2015: What Women Born In The 1970s Read In 2015

6,204 books — 1,529 voters

The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky

I'll Get There. It Better Be Worth the Trip. by John Donovan

The Year They Burned the Books by Nancy Garden

20th Century YA with LGBT Themes

177 books — 50 voters

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson

The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest by Stieg Larsson

New York Times Bestsellers

231 books — 83 voters

Parsley Sage, Rosemary and Time by Jane Louise Curry

In the Keep of Time by Margaret J. Anderson

Children's Time Travel Fiction of the 1970s

131 books — 21 voters

2025: What Women Born In The 1970s Read In 2025

5,752 books — 341 voters

Dreams of Significant Girls by Cristina García

YA Fiction set in the 1970s

95 books — 50 voters

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It’s Literally Summer! 93 Topical Titles for Your Seasonal Reading List.

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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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