There are no products in your shopping cart.
124 E Washington, Ann Arbor, MI 48104 | 734.585.5567 | firstname.lastname@example.org | M-Th 10-9 | Fri & Sa 10-10 | Sun 10-7
I am not exaggerating when I say that towards the end of this book, I BURST into tears. I cannot stress how much I loved these characters and how deeply I cared about their lives, and this is what broke and mended my heart over and over again. A novelist, Ruth, with writer’s block happens upon a Japanese teenager’s diary washed up on shore in a Hello Kitty lunchbox. Ruth is quickly embroiled in Nao’s life, which is beset by terrifying bullies, a suicidal father, a Buddhist monk great-grandmother, and a kamikaze pilot grandfather, and soon the entire community living on Ruth's isolated island is working to find out more about this mysterious girl. This book will transport you, and it will also bring you back home.
I started this book in bed, thinking I would read for an hour at the most. Fast forward to 2 AM, when I turned the last page and conceded my mistake. My heart pounding from the 300-page journey, I lay awake for another hour, thinking about the tragic passions of the three anthropologists whom I still can’t get out of my mind: Nell, Len, and Bankson. Each led to anthropology by the desire to untangle their own personal, and often dark, questions about human nature, these young, brilliant (social) scientists quickly go from studying the tribes of New Guinea to each other. This book will thunder through you, and then leave your body buzzing. Best not to read before bed.
What if we lived in a future where time machines weren’t only real, they were totally ordinary? That’s the world of Yu’s book, where his protagonist (also named Charles Yu) fixes time machines for a living. It’s a surprisingly lonely job, cleaning up after people who insist on changing the past; surprisingly boring, and yet surprisingly dangerous too. This book is all about surprising you, with its imagination, its humor, its intelligence, and its ability to make your chest ache for all the characters, even the hypothetical ones. Take the ride—go somewhere unexpected.
There’s nothing like watching a cast of characters grow up in front of your eyes, each passing year making each person both more and less knowable, until you are as attuned to their individual changes as to the waxing and waning of your own understanding, delight, and frustration with them. With Kevin Wilson’s latest, Perfect Little World, such character growth is nearly steroidal as we are presented with not only a cast of ten babies, but also ten pairs of parents, all living together in pursuit of a revolutionary child psychology experiment created by Dr. Preston Grind. Under such extreme circumstances, impossible to imagine yet, under Wilson’s meticulous hand, compellingly and magically easy to believe, we follow Isabelle Poole, the only single mother involved in the Infinite Family project, as she tries to stitch together a family out of total strangers. Wilson, as author, is the true parent of this brood of squalling characters, and he treats them each like a good parent might, with watchful love, never blind to their flaws but always, eventually, forgiving of them. I wished that I could live in the imperfect, larger-than-life world that is Wilson's novel forever. I'll settle for knowing that I can visit anytime I like.
Rarely has a book so impressed me with its ambition and scope, on both a large and small scale, as The Fortunes. Davies takes on the literal fiction that is “Asian America,” and then shatters this concept by precisely painting his Chinese-American characters with real and human desires, tragedies, and idiosyncrasies. Davies’s characters are historically significant, either at the fore of humongous social change or emblematic of an American era, and yet they never feel like sepia-tinted, two-dimensional photographs, due to the care and empathy with which the author has rendered them. Most importantly, as proven by how quickly I blew through the pages, this book proves that the Chinese American story is one we not only need, but also one we really, really want.
This might not be news to anyone (the book was a huge hit in 1963), but The Group is one of the most sharply incisive and compassionate novels I’ve read in a long time. The “group” in question is made up of six Vassar girlfriends, fresh from college, whom we follow through all the great milestones—unrequited love, marriage, childbirth, adultery, divorce, and finally death. McCarthy is such a funny writer, and yet she also has a great amount of sympathy and affection for the same characters she’s poking fun at. My absolutely favorite thing, though, is how by the end of the novel, all these unique, contradictory, and sometimes just-plain-wrong perspectives make up a perfect picture of a time, a place, and a friendship.
I read this book with my dad, who grew up during the Chinese Cultural Revolution and has a PhD in physics. I am a spoiled millennial who has an MFA in fiction. We both loved this book. Because it is EPIC! I don’t know any other novel that can teach me the three-body problem in physics and make me want to learn more about it. From the dramatic first scene to the stirring last line, this book got both my heart and my brain to pump faster. There’s a reason Cixin Liu is the best-selling science-fiction author in China in decades. And...it's part of a trilogy!
Don’t let this premise fool you—under the wrong hand, a novel about a Brooklyn writer who's bad at relationships would be absolutely insufferable. But Waldman, like Austen and Eliot before her, has managed to pull off a simultaneously scathing and sympathetic portrayal of Nathaniel P, a nice, smart thirty-something guy who has bungled more relationships with nice, smart women than anyone, including himself, can comprehend. You will laugh and you will seethe, but even when you are seething, you will not be able to help but laugh, just a little. If you have ever dated a “Nathaniel P,” befriended one, warned your friends from one (only to commiserate with them when no warning was enough), or been one yourself, read this book.
This book made all kinds of sounds come out of my mouth, none quite appropriate for the public spaces I happened to be in. Certain passages made me bark with laughter, others produced a wry chuckle, still others made a deep cackle rise out of my diaphragm in a way that delighted me and terrified bystanders. But the noise that I made the most, and loved making the most, was an, “Ohhhhahaha.” Ohhhhahaha to Klein discovering the mundanely sexy secrets of womanhood, ohhhhahaha to her slow dance from hell with Dale the Chipmunk, and ohhhhahaha to the tyranny of baths! Part recognition, part cringe, and part relief at finally being able to laugh at what used to make me cringe, Ohhhhahaha and I became good friends as I ripped my way through Klein’s essays. I’d rather be friends with Klein, but I’ll settle for knowing, if her essays are any indicator, that in another, better universe I would be.
Derek Palacio’s The Mortifications is a swirling, transformative novel, possessing a narrative ground that shifts under my feet with every step I take further into the story. I love a novel that can make five years pass by in a few pages, that can make me taste both the sweetness of a tomato and the grunge of unwashed skin in the same paragraph, that transplants ghosts into tobacco leaves. That, in other words, reveals the magic and chaos of good fiction, and which, in turn, becomes the perfect vehicle to describe what is indescribable. Trauma, like the people it touches, is impossible to pin down, as is parenthood, religion, love, and death. It is lucky for us, then, that Palacio leans into this world of unknowable and uncontrollable forces like a translator who can convey even what is lost in translation.
I have a hard time getting immersed in nonfiction books, but Collins’s debut pulled me in and charmed the pants off me. Part memoir, part meditation on language and love, this seemingly slim book is dense with knowledge and heart. While living abroad in London, Collins falls in love with a Frenchman, and together they move to Switzerland, where she finally learns to speak her husband’s language. Though her personal story is deeply romantic and envy-inducing, Collins keeps her retelling grounded and wry (she decides to learn French after hearing Bradley Cooper speak it fluently on a talk show). Interspersed throughout are gems about the way language shapes our perspectives, from the way we see color to the ease with which we learn math. Collins draws the threads between intimacy and fluency so taut and fine that by the end of the book I felt like no matter what language she was speaking, I’d want to listen and understand.
I was so burnt out on think pieces and novels about the "millenial generation" that I nearly didn't read Private Citizens, which would have been a big mistake because this book takes the traditional millenial story and ramps it up to level 9000. Will, Cory, Linda, and Henrik are college friends/roommates/exes who after Stanford graduation have found themselves typically afloat in bad jobs, relationships, and apartments. But this is where the story leaves the beaten path as Tulathimutte’s virtuosic prose and evil genius imagination (think David Foster Wallace) throws our compellingly crappy protagonists into crazier and more unbelievable situations, often of their own making. Reading this book was like hanging out with my smartest, meanest, funniest friend, who thinks I am just as smart, mean, and funny. Whether you hate millennials, want to understand them, or are one, this book will not disappoint as it skewers, demystifies, and, ultimately, empathizes with the most misunderstood (by themselves) generation.
Fans of Michael Ian Black’s brand of acid-tongued comedy will certainly enjoy his latest collection of essays about aging, health, family, and the ever-pleasant topic of DEATH. But even non-fans, like myself, will laugh, wince, and occasionally tear up at Black’s honest, irreverent, and yet surprisingly sincere essays. I don’t know how he does it, but Black manages to write about his expanding (sort of) waistline, growing up with his mother’s “rage addict” partner Elaine, and the harrowing aftereffects of his mother’s cancer treatment with candor and pitch-perfect emotion. Another writer could easily lose control of such tonally different topics. But a stand-up comedy veteran to the end, Black has the confidence and skill to guide his audience down even the most unexpected paths.
As a reader of many celebrity memoirs, I’ve had my fair share of heavy-handed, two-dimensional tell-alls, and I can assure you that Kendrick’s is the perfect antidote to those braggadocios tomes. Hilarious, self-deprecating, and honest, these essays reveal all the layers and under-layers to fame, child stardom, “difficult” actresses, moving to LA, and more. Kendrick holds nothing back and her openness is refreshing without being cringe-worthy—she’s not shameless, but she is unashamed (of sex, of her lack of fashion sense, of the perks of being in Twilight). Pick this up if you’re looking to be entertained by a no-nonsense, wise-cracking, clear-eyed woman of tremendous talents.
This book really needs no extra help getting into people’s hands, but I can’t stop myself from reviewing it anyways. Me Before You is one of those rare novels that’s romantic without being clichéd, kind-hearted and heart-breaking, funny and sentimental. It’s like rain on a sunny day—unexpected, joyously contradictory, and wet (there will be tears). But rest assured, this is a novel worth weeping over.
John Freeman, former editor of Granta, is known for having some of the best literary taste in America, and Freeman’s, his new biannual anthology, only reaffirms his dedication to publishing the greatest contemporary writers, and debuting the “next big things.” I read a handful of literary magazines, and Freeman’s is my new favorite. The talent of the writers is already overwhelming (just look at the last names on the front cover), but the pleasure comes also from the placement of the pieces, which, like an arrangement of flowers, enhances the parts that make up the whole.
When a comedian writes a memoir, you expect, of course for it to be funny. You’re lucky if it’s also emotionally honest. You’re bowled over if it offers a nuanced take on life, or society, or family. I’m here to tell you Trevor Noah’s memoir is like a strike of lightning. The entire time I was reading—when I managed to surface from the gripping narrative of Noah’s harrowing (but never self-pitying or reductive) life in post-Apartheid South Africa—I could not believe how much thought, insight, heart, talent, and, of course, humor went into the writing of what could have been just as successful as a series of punchlines. His first heartbreak from his dog Fufi, an unfortunate misunderstanding over a boy named Hitler, his mother’s ability to sprint after him in high heels—these stories go deeper than I can prepare you for. I defy you to read the first chapter (wherein Noah, age 9, is thrown out of a moving car by his mother) and not feel the urge to keep reading. This book is a powerhouse.
By title alone, I assumed Hannah Tinti’s latest would be a swashbuckling adventure story, one with an invincible, perhaps debonair man at its center. But as soon as I opened the book to its first page, I realized I had gotten it all wrong. And by the time I closed the book on its last page, heart ringing in my chest, I was grateful to have made the mistake. Because Twelve Bullets explores not the bullets themselves, but the holes they leave, and how these are merely the visible ones the world can carve into our bodies. Violence and love are entangled from the first sentence; to read this book is to watch characters you care for struggle and yet, a rare thing, to not wish for their struggles to end. You watch them fight and fall, over and over again, not because you want them to suffer. But because you know, without a doubt, that they will punch through to the other side. Tinti imbues Hawley and his daughter Loo, as well as the various rough-and-tumble characters that run through their lives, with such vulnerability and strength. They never break, even when they’ve literally been broken. I could never rob any of them of their eventual victories over their enemies, their families, themselves. I'd rather shoot myself in the foot.
Tolstoy said that all happy families are alike, but what about happy marriages? Shapiro’s Hourglass is an intimate, impressionistic meditation on her own happy marriage, and the fault lines of luck and love that run through it. The near-miss at the party where she meets her husband; her infant son’s near-fatal fall that leads to a near-fatal diagnosis; the near-constant financial scramble that defines any partnership between two working artists. “Write about what could have happened,” Shapiro tells her students. “What could have happened, but didn’t.” We’ve all experienced that feeling, and reading this memoir was like ever-waking from a dream. The burden of happiness is knowing of how impossibly fortunate you have been, and how little guarantee there is that you will always be. Shapiro asks, how do you move forward without fear? By moving forward regardless, knowing that the years you have lived, even the happiest ones, still prepare you for its tragedies.