If you've ever read Michael Crummey's novels, you know you can expect a few things: a dark, ambiance-rich Newfoundland setting, quirky and superbly crafted characters, and stunningly written prose. In The Adversary, he outdoes himself. This is his best book yet.

Set in a small fishing village called Mockbeggar in the 18th century, there are really three adversaries here. One is Abe Strapp, a thoroughly immoral and corrupt dispenser of justice (who strongly resembles a certain political figure, which I believe is deliberate). The other: Abe's older sister, the Widow Caines, a Quaker who is distinguished by her pipe and the donning of her dead husband's clothing, her pet crow, and her sharp tongue. To say they despise each other is putting it mildly. The third person, The Anglican, holier-than-thou Beadle, who has yoked himself to Abe Strapp.

Don't expect any "likable" characters or redemption here. This is a series of offenses and counter-offenses, with vindictive and yet riveting characters, determined to triumph in controlling Caines Mercantile, uncaring about the wreckage they leave in their wake.

The novel has plenty to keep readers glued to the page: a sibling relationship that gives new meaning to dysfunction, invading marauders, Abe's depraved brothel, scalding, amputations, public whippings, devastating storms, hypocritical religious leaders, a pandemic, and more. Yes, it's a dark tale that focuses on corruption and ruthlessness. But Michael Crummey knows how to milk some of the scenes for entertainment. Think of the old evening soap opera Dallas. You get this: villainous characters who fascinate and repel the reader. It is also a cautionary tale on power dynamics, relevant for today.

I loved this novel and couldn't tear myself away from it. I thank BookBrowse, Doubleday, and NetGalley for enabling me to be an early reader in exchange for an honest review.

"Being I a marriage is like walking a tightrope. You can't lose confidence. You have to keep going. You can't look down."

But what happens when you lose your footing and do look down? Can you survive or must you surrender to the emptiness?

Warren, who has been married to his wife Janet for 37 years, has lost his footing. The two of them share mutual respect, but they have markedly different views of the world. Then he unexpectedly runs into Sarah, his college sweetheart, at the opera. She is now divorced from the man she left Warren for so many years ago. They rekindle what they once had. But of course, life is now far more complicated. Both have adult children, and Warren is married.

That is the set-up for Leaving, and it is the launching pad for many questions that center around love, marriage, and parenthood. Is love – much like in operatic tragedies – a constant struggle between passion and honor? Are there ever moral grounds for leaving a marriage? What do we owe our children and others who love us? Is personal joy more important than being present and nurturing for those who carry our genetic code and will carry it into the future? Should adult children ever have the right to "own" their parents' lives or to emotionally blackmail them?

This is a nuanced book, and in reading it, my own questions arose. According to scientists, we are naturally programmed to enjoy about two years of constant sexual highs before settling down to a calmer, more mature love that can still be punctuated by passion. I wondered: what is it about Sarah that attracted him so deeply? She left him for the flimsiest of reasons. And his need to exit his marriage seems built on relatively flimsy reasons as well. What makes them think now they are natural soulmates? At 60 years old, are Warren and Sarah racing the clock to capture the kind of transcendental love that has been denied to them?

I struggled with my rating because the answers are not clear. But I gradually decided that maybe that's the point: there are no easy answers or instant understandings. This is the kind of novel that captured my attention and left me wanting to talk about it with others. I give it a 4.5 star rating and thank BookBrowse and W.W. Norton for the opportunity to read it early in exchange for an honest review.

Some of the most wrenching novels are based on fact, and so it is here: this novel is inspired by rhe forced resettlement of a mixed-race population of a small island community in Maine at the start of the 20th century.

Teeming with biblical undertones, such as the story of Noah and the Ark, This Other Eden gives credence to the self-destructive and sinful state of the world that demands intervention. For craven eugenicists – such as (Leonard Darwin, who is the only child of Charles Darwin who had no interest in science – and greedy politicians and developers, Apple Island is a cauldron of sin.

The island consists of those considered perverse: incestuous siblings and their mentally impaired children, a righteous Civil War veteran named Zachary Hand to God Proverbs who lives in a hollowed tree, the formerly enslaved Benjamin Honey and his Irish-born wife with their children of various hues of skin colors, and so on.

Of course, things are bound to head south when a well-meaning Christian schoolteacher-turned-missionary decides to better the lot of the island's children – particularly if that missionary holds a visceral repulsion to Blacks. As the island comes to the attention of the politicians, the missionary determines to "rescue" Ethan – a green-eyed boy who can pass as white – and foster his art talents in Massachusetts. The others are headed for institutions so that the island can be developed as a vacation destination.

The Other Eden echoes themes and events that humanity has grappled with to this day. Must those who are different and misunderstood be considered as "less than" and be deprived of dignity and community? Will intolerance always reign?

Gracefully written in magisterial and poetic language, Apple Island itself becomes a fully developed character. Despite its slimness (a bit over 200 pages), the book demands concentration and focus but the rewards are abundant.

I anticipated that Scatterlings would be primarily about the ramifications of the South African Immortality Act, passed in 1927, which deemed it a crime for Europeans (whites) and natives (blacks) to engage in intimate relations.

Indeed, this is how the novel starts out: Abram van Zijl and his emotionally unstable wife Alisa, parents of two mixed race daughters, find themselves in the crossfire of this immoral new law. But the author wants to examine the choices we make, what it means to belong, and the fervent allure and tragedy that draws people to (and forces them away from) Africa.

It particularly focuses on Alisa, who was born the daughter of a Jamaican slave and adopted by an Englishman, leaving her to straddle the white/black divide and experience herself as rootless and ultimately, melancholy and lost. Large segments of her journal are revealed that are more expository than emotive or introspective. While her feelings of oppression are revealed, the tone of the journal keeps readers at a distance from a true understanding of a heinous act that Alisa commits early on in the novel.

Ultimately, my reading experience was mixed. On one hand, this author writes beautifully and lyrically, introducing ancestral myth and ritual into her narrative and composing passages that are memorable, mesmerizing, and profound. On the other, there are narrative choices (such as the journal) that, for me, broke up the spell that was being created and not fully allowing me to immerse into the story. I thank BookBrowse and Harper Via for enabling me to be an early reader in exchange for an honest review.

Families, it is said, are like branches on a tree. They grow in different directions, yet their roots remain as one.

Meet the Izquierdo family. With my smattering of college Spanish, I know that izquierdo means from the left or left-handed. Who knew that it also meant "you have always been cursed"? Certainly, the Izquierdos feel that way. Papa Tavo, the family's patriarch, believes strongly that his neighbor Emiliano Contreras has placed a curse on him and his family because of his jealousy of his fortune.

In reality? The Izquierdo family – and we meet various members of it, who take their place on the stage in linked chapters – is a colorful and imperfect mixture of disparate personalities that somehow morph into one unit with the same roots.

Ruben Degollado convincingly brings these family members to life: those who have fallen prey to the excesses of religion or superstition (which, in my mind, too often are one and the same), the struggles to claim one's place in the family order, the jealousies and flirtations, the boisterous gatherings, the stories – some real, some invented – that ultimately define our history and who we are. And also the songs of courage, joy, and love that weave through the stories.

Despite the individual stories that distinguish each character, ultimately, it is the family that endures – whether it's a family with several branches or "a nation of two." My thanks to BookBrowse and W.W. Norton for enabling me to be an early reader in exchange for an honest review.

There was something déjà vu in reading The Immortal King Rao not long after finishing Jennifer Egan's Candy House. Both books, at their core, are about brilliant tech entrepreneurs who invent ways to gain access to every memory ever had.

Egan's version is a new technology called Own Your Unconscious – sharing every memory in exchange for access to others. Vara's version is an Internet-connected device called The Harmonica, which provides access to all memories. Both books present estranged citizens who have rejected the new way, called the "eluders" in Candy House and the "exes" in Immortal King Rao.

I am not suggesting that either of these talented authors "borrowed" from the other; the books are being published at almost the same time. I do think it is an interesting commentary on our post (or present) pandemic society that writers are exploring the theme of memory preservation and human longing for real connection.

The concept of an India-born biotechnological genius and his daughter, Athena Rao, who tries to escape him after being implanted with his memories to make him immortal, is compelling. King Rao's Coconut Corporation is evocative of the Apple Corporation with a dystopian spin – a corporate-run government where everyone (at least everyone who doesn't opt out) is a Shareholder. Everything is determined by an algorithm (or ALGO), which is unerringly spot-on with where capitalism appears to be heading.

Equally compelling is the human-interest story. There's a touch of Miranda, from Shakespeare's The Tempest, in Athena. The technological aspects do not undermine or overshadow the human elements: the complicated relationship between father and daughter, the themes of betrayal and love and longing and understanding, and the courage it takes to open up to one another. The end message is poignant and timely: as we continue to drive ourselves to extinction, what if we could "gather up our stories and hold on to them for safekeeping?... Wouldn't that be our best shot at proving to the universe that, once upon a time, we were here?"

You've read it before – a small town that hides big secrets that burst to the surface when a young person goes missing or is slain. Two books that instantly come to mind are The Dry by Jane Harper and Disappearing Earth by Julia Phillips.

Haley Scrivenor is not seeking to recreate the wheel. What she IS looking to do is tell a darn good story that keeps you up past bedtime and engages you with fully dimensional characters who you truly care about.

This cast of characters is backed by a choir of children (the "we" chapters) who live in this claustrophobic town, where everyone knows everything and everybody but in fact, know nothing. Young Esther will always be a Dirt Town child, as we all are – always imperfect, but also always a catalyst for revealing truths about ourselves and where we live.

What an amazing reimagining of the Brothers Karamazov! Even though the brothers in question here are the three sons of Leo Chao, "the consummate American id, an insatiable narcissist, a shameless capitalist who wanted to screw everyone", the framework of the classic Russian novel and its themes are solidly cemented in place.

Like the Brothers Karamazov, the plot is fueled by the relationship of a father with his adult sons. The older son, Dagou (like his counterpart, Dmitri) is in need of an inheritance, which is being withheld by his father, whom he passionately hates. The middle son, Ming (Ivan) is sullen, isolated and intellectually brilliant. Young James (Alexel), the youngest, is the likeable youngest brother and the moral compass of the book. When Leo, who believes only in the primacy of self, is found dead, nobody is unhappy but someone has to pay. Can a flawed but heartfelt Asian man get a fair shake in a quintessentially American justice system?

Had Lan Samantha Chang crafted a modern-day version of an all-time favorite classic, this novel would have been a success. But she goes further, exploring the passions and rivalries of an "outsider" family in pursuit of the American Dream. Merging humor with pathos, Ms. Chang expertly navigates the subtle and overt prejudices and biases of "real" Americans toward Chinese immigrant families (even those who have been here for a few generations) and the plight of those immigrants who profit from the Dream while being held at arms-length.

By merging a family drama, an immigrant story, a literary mystery and a deep dive into what it means to be American, The Family Chao succeeds on many different levels.

There are several key strands to explore in this ambitious, shattering, unforgettable, sprawling and ultimately uneven novel. Two of the most prominent are the prevalence of racism in an educated publishing house and in New York in general and racist assumptions about Africa. Juxtaposed is a story of Ekong's Hell's Kitchen apartment, which is rife with bedbugs and turns his days into agony. It does not take look to recognize that the two stands have something in common: racism and a bed bug invasion are both infestations that need massive effort to stamp out—and even then, they reappear over and over again.

Uwem Akpan also weaves in scenes and back-history of the Biafran War, which are haunting and instructive. Thy deserve to see the light of day and provide insights into Nigeria and its heinous Biafran War in ways that the rest of the world needs to understand. As a human being, I applaud the effort. As a literary reader, I sensed the wizard behind the curtain – authorial intrusion – and felt that Uwem Akpan was trying to merge two essential stories into one novel with mixed results. I wish the author had written two distinct books. I'm glad he wrote one.

Big Girl, Small Town laser-focuses on the stout and underachieving character Majella O'Neill—cruelly called Jelly – who lives in the small village of Aghybogey during the Irish Troubles.

Each chapter begins with the time of day and an item from a list of things she doesn't like at the start at the novel (the most important of these items is "other people.") The precision of the chapters suggests that in all likelihood, Majella is on the autistic spectrum. She lives a small and bleak life: no friends, no ambitions, wears the same clothes every day, works in a local chip shop called Salt and Battered and watches her favorite TV series, Dallas. Yet the narrow focus on Majella belies the important events going on around outside her.

Her mother is an alcoholic, her octogenarian Gran has been murdered, and the Irish Troubles pervades everyone's life. People are segregated by religion and violence is never far in the background.

The author gets many things right: the Irish patois, which takes some getting used to but adds a great degree of authenticity…the ambiance of Aghybogey….and most of all, the internal and external nuances of a character. It's hard for a reader not to feel in the skin of the character; in fact, the novel works best as a character study.

The promised humor is outweighed by a sense of bleakness and poignancy. The book is best recommended for readers who have patience for a book that meanders slowly as it focuses on outward routines and inward churning. I didn't love it, but I admired the author's intent and execution.

After a certain age, you begin to realize that life isn't a neat and linear progression of memories, but rather a series of disjointed artifacts, rituals, and language that make that life take shape. Digging a little deeper, you understand something else: that often, the story of your life is easier to fall into than your own life.

This is a mature work by a profound author, and more than once I stopped and wondered if I would have appreciated it if I were, say, 20 or 30 or even 40 years of age. The honest answer is, I'm not sure. But at this point, it resonated strongly.

The novel is a finely wrought deconstruction of lives that are lived partially in shadow with occasional artifacts that shine light on each person's carefully protected psyche. Jill McCorkle mines the hieroglyphics that define us and maybe, just maybe, offer a chance of redemption.

How do I even begin to do justice to a book that is so brilliantly-written, harrowing, poignant, thought-provoking, strongly-plotted and heart-stopping?

Perhaps with this: American Dirt is one of those rare books that will not only galvanize readers with its story and with its characters, but also change the way we think about our human condition. At this sad juncture in American history where desperate people who are fleeing for their lives are portrayed as a homogeneous brown mass clamoring for benefits they haven't earned, Jeanine Cummins breathes life and humanity into her characters.

This author—herself the wife of an undocumented immigrant—vividly narrates a dangerous path forward where any stranger may, in fact, be an assassin and where every decision might be an instrument of death. Lydia and Luca's harrowing journey across a lethal freight train nicknamed "La Bestia" and a dangerous border crossing that had my heart in my throat is reason enough to read this book.

But the plot itself is not the thrust of Jeanine Cummins' story. She goes in search of deeper territory: how do we survive the unfathomable? How do we retain any spark of humanity when the world keeps revealing itself as predatory and evil? This book, to me, is a 6-star read!

Travelers is about the stories and secrets that African refugees and asylum seekers carry, the colorful past that helps answer the question, "Where am I? Who am I? How did I get here?" It's about how we remain human when a loss of identity and sense of dislocation begin closing in, and what we cling to to find the resilience to move ahead. With successive chapters that introduce interweaving characters, it is a tour de force.

Right at the center of the vortex is a Nigerian student whose marriage to his American wife is flailing. While in Berlin, he meets a number of Africans who have fled their home. Through their connections, we hear the poignant stories: a one-time doctor who now works as a bouncer and who shows up every Sunday at Checkpoint Charlie where he hopes to reunite with his lost wife. A shopkeeper who fled an al-Shabaab commander who was determined to marry his 10-year-old daughter. A young woman who visits her husband's Swiss ex-wife who stood trial for his murder. An amnesiac woman who lost her fleeing family and is schooled to believe she is someone else. A soon-to-be-deported young man on a hunger strike. The narrator, too, gets a taste of what it means to be in a refugee camp after a mishap with his papers.

At a time in the world's history when refugees are dehumanized and lumped into one category – "the other" – Habila refuses to let us rest on that complacency.

The Lost Man is one of those books that starts with a simmer and then ignites and becomes unputdownable. Jane Harper makes ample use of dialog to illuminate her characters -- two brothers who meet up at a fence line after their middle brother is found dead. Little by little, their back story is revealed (introducing us to wives, kids, and so forth) and they become so real they could step off the pages. The remote Australian outback comes alive as its own "character", and the desert heat and near-total isolation is palpable; the book positively radiates atmosphere. I will add this: I was not a big fan of The Dry and chose this based on the fact that it was a standalone and had some great advance buzz. To my mind, this book is MUCH better than her debut novel with an increased emphasis on the characters and less on the detective work. If psychological tension and suspense is up your alley, I would definitely recommend it.

If I had to choose an author to write my own life story, it would be Anne Tyler. She suffuses her quirky characters with so much compassion and understanding that they come alive on the page.

In Clock Dance, familiar themes emerge: the woman who must leave home to find herself (Ladder of Years), the emotional distancing of children (Dinner in the Homesick Restaurant), the difference in marital styles (The Amateur Marriage). Those who love Anne Tyler—and I do—will rejoice in all the familiar nuances of her oeuvre: eccentric yet familiar characters, baffling children, happened-upon marriages, the Baltimore setting and the dichotomy between confinement and freedom, security and self-worth. ." Now in her 70s, Anne Tyler still imparts lessons about the glory of living. As long as she keeps writing, I'll keep reading.

Luis Alberto Urrea's latest book is about our better angels and how the guide us to purpose and meaning. "All we do, mija," the oldest brother, Big Angel, says, "is love. Love is the answer. Nothing stops it. Not borders. Not death."

Miguel Angel de la Cruz - aka Big Angel - is dying and he wants one last big birthday party. His entire huge and rambunctious family, including Little Angel - the son from his father's second life and a stand-on for Luis Alberto Urrea - are there for the merging of celebration and impending death.

Complicated family dynamics are at play as the borders that separate us - literally and figuratively - are explored and resentments and secrets are revealed. The unruliness of the family - particularly at first - can sometimes seem overwhelming as many characters - sons, daughters, tios and tias - are introduced quickly, and I do believe that Mr. Urrea intended to create that effect. Mr. Urrea is a superb writer and he has captured a family at the precipice of a major transition and how, at the end of the day, love prevails.

Poignancy and humor interject here - as they do in life -for a most satisfying reading experience. Definitely recommended.

John Boyne dedicates this sprawling novel to John Irving and that, in my opinion, is no accident. John Irving's works are characterized by two key themes: the absent parent who looms large in his/her offspring's life, and the role of predetermination merged with coincidence. Both these themes are in ample display here.

The book opens with a bang: a teenage girl is humiliated, emotionally abused, and cast out of the church when her pregnancy is revealed. That girl is Cyril Avery's unknown birth mother, who appears intermittently in his life. Adopted by a wealthy and eccentric Dublin couple who insist that his stay in a "tenancy" and that he is "not really an Avery", Cyril is adrift both at home and in the broader Irish theocracy.

Attracted to a charismatic and girl-chasing friend Julian Woodbead, Cyril – who is gay – learns early on to lead a shadow life, suppressing desires and trying to figure out where he belongs.

Yet this novel – bawdy and comedic in parts, poignant and searing in others – is not just a depiction of Cyril's struggles, but also the struggles of Ireland. As Cyril evolves from self-loathing, denial and crippling shame, so does his country, which rejects the scandalous, hypocritical and abusive church structure in favor of a more accepting and equalitarian stance.

I was totally engrossed in this redemptive book and in awe of how John Boyne merged a sense of comedic bravado with heartfelt fury at how the church attempted to destroy the lives of those who stepped outside the lines of its orthodoxy.

Two things in closing: this is not a "gay book". It is a human book and a redemptive one at that, which is must reading for anyone who is traveling the journey to self-acceptance. And, while coincidence plays a heavy role, those who appreciate Irving will recognize how predetermination can impact our individual stories.

This novel is clever in the way that Donna Tartt's The Secret History is clever -- expertly layered, gradually revealing its secrets. Take that book, merge it with the Bard, and you have a thriller that takes "literary" to a new level.

When a group of budding Shakespeare actors are cast against type in a Halloween production of Macbeth, death is the result. But the whodunit is cast in secondary position to the larger story: the transformation and renewal of the friendship of the survivors and how their feelings of guilt are played out on stage and in their hearts.

The book will not be for everyone. It requires at least a rudimentary knowledge of Shakespeare (there's a reference to Shakespeare on nearly every page) and in the beginning, requires close attention to keep track of the players. It's also innovative and well-written and increasingly involving. For the right reader, it's a home run.

The Barrowfields is a wonderfully promising debut novel that loses its way by trying to be too ambitious.

At first, I was entranced by Philip Lewis' majestic and evocative prose, which reads as if it could have easily been penned in the 1940s. Henry Aster, our narrator, relays the tale of his father, also named Henry, who returned to his small Appalachian town with his pregnant wife and eventually purchases a gothic haunted house, where horrendous murders took place.

The house is a red herring and that trail goes nowhere. It appears to serve as the metaphorical embodiment of the senior Henry's haunted mind, as he struggles to write a novel and fit in with often small-minded neighbors. The sense of time and place is truly exquisite.

Had the book pursued this angle – Henry, who is inexplicably drawn to the Barrowfields and his son Henry who also struggles with "you can't go home again" – this book would have been an unqualified winner. The second half of the book, however, focuses on Henry Jr's pursuit of an impossibly beautiful (sigh!) college girl named Story, who is very damaged by her past. In this section, melodrama rules.

I felt as if the first half and the second half didn't naturally coalesce and the way too familiar story of Henry Jr's connection with the exquisite blond and luscious Story didn't engage me anywhere as much as Henry's complicated family relationship. 3.5 stars.

This debut novel on family life focuses on a poignant theme: what sacrifices are made by the adult child who never received unconditional love and emotional stability in childhood.

The adult child in question is Kyung Cho, a young father and budding professor who is semi-estranged from his affluent and tyrant father and cold mother. But then, one violent day, everything changes. And Kyung must face some of life's most quintessential issues: how can someone be whole if there's a yawning gap in the midst of his life? What does he owe a father who has snatched away the ability to feel safe? How does he give to his own son that which was not given to himself? This is a thought-provoking, well-written novel that needs just a tad more nuance.