“Take My Hand” by Dolen Perkins-Valdez features a nurse who works with sexual and reproductive health that receives the odd task of injecting birth control into eleven and fourteen-year-old sisters. Again, we go back and forth between the past and the present, foreshadowing that something went wrong with that arrangement.

I have to give an odd moment of props to the summary writers on the flap because they keep most of the plot points a secret. Of course, once the story progresses, you see where it is going, but that happens organically. Civil, the nurse, tries to help the kids and their families by giving them a new apartment, clothes, and cleaning supplies but finds out that the decision to provide them with birth control shots causes them more harm than good.

As with most Jim Crow novels set in the 1970s, I had to question how close to reality this fiction lived seriously. If such experimental procedures existed specifically on Black Americans, how recently did that occur? If they decided on a tubal ligation for little Erica and India before they even had relations (or their periods, for that matter), where did one draw the line about what was too intrusive for people with low incomes?

Like most award-winning novels about hard times and dark periods in our nation’s history, “Take My Hand” takes the opportunity to find positivity just as the characters do. Erica and India went through hell but still acted like kids. However, when we realize that the problem goes much deeper, we enter a legal drama to address a widespread problem in which health organizations play God and deem others unfit to reproduce.

A co-worker whose opinion I trust said that I read the most depressing stuff. When you pick award-winners, you will get a hold of the Holocaust, civil rights, and war. I like what they make me think about. If the world thought involuntary sterilization was acceptable in the 70s, we must question how much fiction was. It changes the whole abortion debate, too, not that I ever want to have that conversation.

“Daughters of the Flower Fragrant Garden” by Zhuqing Li tells the story of two sisters who end up on opposite sides of the Chinese Civil War of the 1930s but still succeed in life. However, like any war book worth its salt, you do not take sides and recognize the hardship of finding out that you and your sibling now live in separate countries for reasons that are neither your fault nor your concern.

Jun takes a teaching job in Taiwan and sides with the Nationalists, while her sister Hong marries a bigwig in the Communist Party and cuts off all communication with Jun, as remaining neutral is not an option. Both women start as somewhat apolitical, but Jun finds an opportunity to write speeches for a top member of the National Party, and leaving the island becomes an impossibility during the war.

Min and Jun’s marriage becomes complicated when Min’s son from a previous marriage returns after showing signs of sympathizing with the Nationalists and receiving a beating because of it, putting his father in danger for giving him money. On the other hand, Hong saves lives and becomes a national hero until people learn of her connections to someone from the “other side” and use that as an excuse to ransack her home.

The Nationalist/Communist debate could go on all day, and the paranoid “re-education” system of the Communists will frighten you. Still, you cannot primarily relate to a world where someone takes someone’s medical license away, forcing them to farm. So Jun and Hong find ways to make their situation work for them, which ends up more inspiring than sad in a land where women have limited opportunities.

I did not know much about this conflict; it shocked me that some of my friends’ parents lived through it. But unfortunately, the United States did not seem to have a complete grasp on what side they were on at times. Jun and Hong make great heroes, though, as they find ways to help out their fellow beings in a time when their superiors want to dictate their every move. Those looking for success with business and medical innovation will find inspiration.

“The Story of Russia” by Orlando Figes has a wealth of information about Russian history and recognizes that it is more complex than most realize; for example, the book contains a lot of maps, and you will need them to describe the provinces at different points throughout history. But, as is the case with historical summaries like this, the author can either err on the side of being too accessible for history buffs or too detailed for the casual reader: Figes chooses the latter, and you will learn something.

I am reasonably well-informed, but the 1500s are not my strong suit. Nevertheless, hearing about a period in which leaders and the clergy worked in unison, and tsars quoted the bible to rationalize their crimes was sobering.

The sheer volume of religious conflicts and wars was shocking. In the 1600s, when the West began to acknowledge that Russia had power, many deaths occurred, leaving citizens to know nothing but that life.

Russia had the unique position of affecting European and Asian life. As they attempted to expand materialistically, they embraced foreigners but banished Jews in the late 1700s, possibly changing the sentiments of Europe. When culture and religious wars heat up in the 1850s, Figes achieves the tricky balance of respecting the Russian viewpoint while still painting a picture of revolution and violence.

If I were to judge public sentimentality by my social media feed, people are fascinated by the philosophy of Marxism but hate Communism. But, of course, you can do both and remain fascinated by the events that led to Lenin’s ascent to power. I had no idea that so many different groups opposed each other in the time of World War I and the Russian Revolution. Their methods of propaganda do not differ much from today’s.

My biggest weakness when posting these on social media is obsessing over what my conservative and liberal friends will think. Fear not. Figes views Communism as a fast-rising phenomenon and goes into great detail as to how it failed. I am amazed by how much I did not know about Lenin and Stalin. If anything, it created empathy in me for the Russian people, as so many lived under poor leadership without any knowledge or capacity to fix it.

“The Marriage Portrait” by Maggie O’Farrell requires critical re-reading. Set in 1560 in Italy; a 15-year-old has to marry a duke after her sister passes away while engaged to the guy. Lucrezia then becomes convinced that her new husband is not what he seems, and he fears that he may want to kill her. The history in this historical fiction tells us she is suitable, but we have more to learn.

Had Lucrezia been older than twelve when this deal for the marriage of two powerful families went down, the controversy would not come off as so creepy today. But, if you have to ask if menstruation has occurred, maybe a wedding is off the table. Nonetheless, a wedding happens most grandly, all while we jump back and forth to Lucrezia becoming mysteriously sick a year later.

Good historical fiction will have you peeking in on the real stories to figure out what happened. Lucrezia, for example, did only live to be sixteen. The character development takes on an exciting air, but her husband, Duke Alfonso, needs an aura of mystique but even kindness to give you pause.

O’Farrell writes Lucrezia with an air of confusion: she confronts a duplicitous husband and the oddness of sex with an older, unfamiliar man without the modern conveniences of choice and consent. Yet, as literature requires, we learn more about her skills and abilities that make her more than the court assumes based on his limited age and power.

Many people would not read this due to its setting, but it now has themes that echo society. Why do some people feel the need to dominate others and rationalize it as an act of love? The more we learn about the characters, the more it all makes sense, but not in a good way. You will hate several people on the pages but still read it.

“Honor” by Thrity Umrigar exposes a side of India we rarely see. A woman loses her husband to arson after their interfaith marriage, and a reporter who left India voluntarily must return to her homeland to cover the story. Smita, the reporter, returns to India after her family left when she was a teen and remembers why they left. But, unfortunately, the cultural traditions could stifle someone who has left the Western way.

One must consider many cultures to understand how Western and Eastern styles conflict. Sure, some Indian ways seem backward, but the way of life works for them. Many could not imagine living somewhere else. Knowing that a decision like marrying outside of your religion could cause an incident that could cause unrest among those who are not technically involved would make you a little uneasy.

India holds traditions dear, but, as the author says, “…traditions are like eggs-once you break one, it is impossible to put it back inside the shell.” Smita is glad to be away from it, but Meena lost her husband to those that disagreed with her decision. In addition, both Islam and Hinduism have rigorous gender role expectations, and Smita experiences culture shock as people use their faith to rationalize many transgressions, up to and including murder.

Even the scenes of romance (my least favorite genre) ring true because of the element of danger created. So when we read of Meena’s courtship with Abdul, we go against our instincts and root against them. As we define “Honor” as the reason for the book’s title, the characters justify their actions as doing what they needed to do under the circumstances. Having convictions is admirable, but the characters go to extremes here.

The twist at the end of the second act is a doozy that changes anything you thought the author was trying to say. Atrocities occur in the name of religion, and you can see how that behavior could drive people out of the country. Every culture has its quirks, and India, unfortunately, lends theirs to a miscarriage of justice that will make you angry even more when you realize that there is no way around it.

"We Are Not Like Them" by Christine Pride and Jo Piazza has an explosive premise that will make it the water cooler book that "The Hate You Give" was. Two life-long best friends (one black and one white and, yes, their race matters) faced a crossroads when the white one's husband shot an unarmed black kid in the line of duty. Emotion is high at the story's beginning, and your mind wanders to how the characters feel instead of what is happening.

Jenny, the cop's wife, has a single-minded focus with a baby on the way. Riley, the reporter, is responsible for the truth and her race. As a local sports writer stated, both sides may be opposed but acting perfectly rationally. Kevin, the police officer, has an element of guilt that would raise a reaction out of the ardent "Blue Lives Matter" and "Black Lives Matter" communities.

You should read this book either way if you believe you have a "side" in this debate. As a relatively liberal white male, I had a good idea about the argument for the innocent kid. However, promoting empathy for the police officer and his family takes more skill. I could not stop thinking about both of the protagonists and their lives. Imagine being pregnant while all of this went down when you had nothing to do with it.

Above all, this is a novel about friendship. We establish bonds over the years and feel that nothing can break them until an unspeakable tragedy puts that to the test. Where does your loyalty lie when it conflicts with another relationship? Riley and Jen's interactions inspire you. Even though logic tells you their friendship cannot survive this controversy, you root for them and enjoy seeing the smallest act of kindness.

I think the ending will frustrate some people and cause some water cooler conversations that do not end well. The more you read, the less you can imagine a perfect solution. I expect some polarization. One should not go into this with the feeling that you want the book to echo their sentiments and exactly how you want it to go down. Jen and Riley are mature enough to know of no easy answers, and the reader may need the same grace.

"I Will Die in a Foreign Land" by Kalani Pickhart is chaotic, but I suppose the riots and protests they cover were as well. Picture it, Ukraine, 2013: the government has decided to align closer to Russia and Vladimir Putin than the European Union. People, at least the four featured characters, try to go about their business while their world irrevocably changes around them. We meet them through audio transcripts, news clippings, and actual narratives.

As much attention as we provide Ukraine now that we are involved, there was much more to say about the events a decade ago. We, as Americans, may not see the value of the European Union over the Eurasian Economic Union, but the citizens had strong opinions on the subject. Unfortunately, the Ukrainians descended into madness like Americans who did not feel adequately represented at specific historical points. We learn about doctor Katya, injured engineer Mischa, activist Slava, and ex-KGB agent Aleksandr. Keeping up is a struggle but worth it.

I reacted to the enormous death tolls in the protests, considering that it should have been a bigger story. However, when the lives of our four protagonists inevitably intertwine, the author incorporates elements of romance, desperation, and fear. As the doctor is battling some personal tragedy, she must tend to the other three in a way that reminds you how senseless the violence is. No one would see 100 deaths and feel their cause was worth it.

That moment when books reveal the meaning of their title cheapens the novel. Still, Pickhart ties together the Chornobyl (sic) disaster with the protests to show why the main characters may no longer recognize their homeland. The ex-KGB agent, Sasha, appears last in the novel but drives this point home. Slava lives as a lesbian in about the least gay-friendly environment in the world and comes back long enough to figure out why she left.

In an extended war zone, we never become too comfortable that the situation will improve and our heroes will survive. So when a dream sequence causes you to feel the worst, you understand why the characters' decisions can seem haphazard. Yet, when we reach the end, we have learned much from each character and have had a profoundly emotional experience. Every book teaches us the senseless of violence and some wars but keeps giving us more evidence.

“Chasing Me to My Grave: An Artist’s Memoir of the Jim Crow South” by Winfred Rembert has a difficult job right out of the gate: writing a biography about an artist or writer is challenging because most of the brilliance comes from within their mind. Luckily, Rembert told most of his story to Erin I. Kelly, so we receive more of a glance inside his mind. A close friend told me he was “sick” of these ex-slave stories, but they need to read this and see how many new stories exist.

In a way, Rembert’s stories remind us of how the tales of the Jim Crow era have stood the test of time. We remember the past as a way of appreciating what we have now. If you grew up with the rules that only apply to people with your skin color, you have a different outlook than others. His art is his memory, from courthouses to jails to pool halls. He manages to have nostalgia for a period that he would never what to repeat.

The book is primarily a memoir about his experiences with racism and Jim Crow, but many pages contain pictures of his artwork; therefore, it is a rapid read but not easy. For example, describing a near-lynching in matter-of-fact detail is a feat. Like most stories about civil rights, it shocks me how recently all this was still going down. It makes me feel bad for stressing about little things in my life. At least I am not working five jobs for the right to live.

From an art perspective, it amazes me that Rembert used leather as his primary medium, with damp leather combined with paper and tracing. When I studied Art History as an elective in college, I remember not to judge art as better or worse based on available materials. You have to remind yourself about this way of thinking often.

To say that it is never too late to become who you want to be is incredibly cliché; nonetheless, Rembert lives as an enslaved person, laborer, and criminal before he discovers his true talent as an artist. Nevertheless, his experiences made him who he is. Like the antiheroes we have come to love in various series, he had a heck of a life leading to one unique story. His art lets him pass on parts of his life that would have disappeared.

"The Netanyahus" by Joshua Cohen tells the story of a Jewish man in a prominent history department who does not study Jewish history. Instead, Ruben Blum is responsible for reviewing an application from a quirky Israeli scholar. The man is Benjamin Netanyahu's father and teaches us how theology and history interact in Jewish politics. You wouldn't think you could describe this type of book as funny, but here we are.

Blum has a life that seems familiar in American literature: he has achieved a high level of academia but does not impress his parents or in-laws with his status at the college. Think of how the media treats doctorates that are not medical. As we transition to scholar Ben-Zion Netanyahu, we see the jealousy and cynicism with which the scholars view their peers as historians of Judaism pass judgment on how historians consider Jewish suffering.

We take a while to meet the scholar as we experience family nostalgia with the Blums and the in-laws. Then, just when we think that Ruben has met his stress quota, the Netanyahus descend upon his idyllic existence. The best parts occur when we are reading about his household; you cannot imagine this entire life taking a back seat to the political aspects of the novel. The Blums need their sitcom by themselves.

When the family and the 10-year-old Benjamin arrive, the results are sitcom-esque but funny. I think the easiest way to poke harmless fun at a former world leader is to imagine him as a precocious 10-year-old with little self-control. The more incredible frustration comes from the adults; however, since social norms differ significantly, the Blums go along with the Netanyahus' hijinks as if they are improv actors who have no choice but to say "yes."

Cohen has a gift for writing about the mundane and making it funny and exciting. The history/theology debate works through several portions of the novel, and you may Google a few things if you are not Jewish or a historian. For such a short novel, you will find yourself engrossed and relate to the protagonist despite his regimented place in academia in a faraway time. I would love for one of you to read this and discuss it with me.

"Dinosaurs" by Lydia Millett should fire its PR team because it makes the story sound aimless, yet it hooked me immediately. A gentleman walks from New York to Phoenix (you read that correctly) and starts anew after a failed relationship. Our protagonist, Gil, has a lot of money and has the upward mobility and flexibility to move across the country on a whim. He develops a bond/obsession with the family in the glass house next door. Think "Little Fires Everywhere," not "Magnolia".

The title pertains to Gil's bird-watching and often ponders how some evolved into birds while others disappeared. He "people-watches" similarly and feels equally detached from their interactions. Thoughts of the family next door consume him. We find Gil very intriguing, as he has accumulated wealth and seems to have a knack for giving advice and helping others. His own life appears to hinder him the most, however.

Like "Little Fires Everywhere," character development occurs so gradually that you will care about what happens to Gil before you realize why, partly because so much of his energy goes into helping others with their problems. I think that the author's purpose, in part, is to show what someone would do if finances, time, space, and familial responsibilities were not obstacles. Who would you be in that situation, and what would change? What priorities would you have?

We do not learn much about Gil's family background until halfway through the book. Many events shaped who he was and enabled him to up and abandon the life that he had. His ex said that he "did nothing" despite his extensive volunteering. The author, therefore, has a lot to say about altruism and trust, as the recipients of Gil's philanthropy and kindness often respond in such a way that would make lesser people give up on helping others.

I gave thanks to the advertisers because the story was engaging but lacked a genre; therefore, I had no idea what to expect from page to page. Gil floated in and out of so many lives and learned about humanity that way. If you like character studies, look no further than this work. I understand if it is not to everyone's taste since it does not fit into any little boxes. I could not wait to pick it up again and see where it would take me next.

"In Love: A Memoir of Love and Loss" by Amy Bloom tells the story of a couple who, when the husband develops Alzheimer's Disease, seek physician-assisted suicide to end his suffering. With this topic, many people feel strongly enough about the issue to say, "No thanks," but Bloom gives us details that activate your empathy as you know Bloom's anguish.

Bloom provides a glimpse of the human experience that has a lot in common with regular, old-fashioned grief. You try to soak in the last moments and want your loved one around for selfish reasons, even though they no longer wish to suffer. The more I read the author in pain, the less my politics interfered or mattered.

Alzheimer's Disease has touched our lives in some form or another. Bloom reads directly from some of the manuals for caregivers to show precisely how different her reality is from those who try to oversimplify for support. For this reason, it baffles me that anyone would find a flaw in the book since, if anything, it made me value my time on this Earth more and reminded me why I would make a different choice in this situation but still understand Amy's plight.

Your feelings about this will coincide with your initial reaction to the end of "Million Dollar Baby" for reasons that would spoil a 19-year-old movie for some but will paint an all-too-familiar portrait of emotional trauma. Only the heartless would judge. Every decision at the end of the book causes stress, from the mundane to life and death. The scene at the casino shows how tough it is to rein in a patient with dementia when others encourage you to let them live.

The journey to the end of the book is long and painful, but then again, so is Alzheimer's. The text may not dispel your opinions, but it will show you that no one can or will enter this decision lightly or quickly. The cost eliminates 75 of the world's population anyway. Accept this as one of the most honest writings you will encounter this year.

“frank: sonnets” by Diane Seuss (no relation) has incredibly free-range, stream-of-consciousness poetry. Imagine 137 pages of quick, rambling paragraphs where the author casually mentions death and suicidal ideation, only to move on to something else almost immediately.

It would help if you had a degree in English to explain what defines poetry nowadays. We learned by age eight that no one needs to rhyme, but we expect some meter. Seuss’s writing flows more like prose and memory, and we witness her speak of childhood trauma and frenemies in that haphazard way that we always recall our youth.

I had trouble following the story arc because of the reasons above. Obviously, the poet intended to write in an accessible style, but you did not necessarily know what was coming and quickly lost your place. In addition, I did not see that we defined sonnets as 14-line poems, and this book, having 130 separate stories as a part of a memoir, runs together enough that you cannot tell what exists on its own.

Once we hit the halfway point, the tragedies of Diane’s life lessons make things a lot more interesting. She writes about addiction, family drama, and abortion with such skill that you feel bad for wanting more of that. “I remember begging to die when I gave birth and begging to be born when I was dying.” That is profound.

One coworker once complimented me by saying I understood others because I read. The author mentions childbirth, pregnancy, and crushes on men in a way that would have driven me away before, but here it simply provides perspective. According to the observations of other reviewers, I completely missed one of the more prominent themes, which gives a much more depressing, bleak experience, but, man, is Seuss good at painting that kind of picture.

“Cloud Cuckoo Land” covers a lot of ground from the past, present, and future. It has so much ambition that you almost feel it is unfair to criticize it. However, you feel more competent when it all comes together because you “get it.” I think I got it. But, if you are the reader who begs for a structured plot and a definitive, happy ending, you may want to look elsewhere for your next novel.

Author Anthony Doerr wrote one of the most polarizing novels, “All The Light We Cannot See,” eight years ago, and those who wanted a clear ending and well-defined plot hated it. If you value imagery as much as the plot, “Cloud Cuckoo Land” might be for you. I enjoyed the ride. If you had told me five years ago that I would want a book whose story was its biggest weakness, I would have said to go back to reading Nancy Drew.

Usually, a novel with different timelines enthralls you or bores you. Here, the one in the future has a ton of relevance for today, while the present-day tale will keep you on the edge of your seat. Unfortunately, the part set in the 1400s takes a little too long to get going. The message is strong, and it all comes together nicely, but it could have happened more quickly.

Your opinion of your IQ will differ considerably from page 300 to page 500 once you figure out how all the threads tie together. I could see many of my friends jumping ship before things made sense. But, for me, it was like a breath of fresh air upon discovering the significance of the “source material” and recognizing how multiple people interpreted it differently and perverted its message.

I recommend this highly to my deep-thinking, patient friends. I would understand if you lost momentum during the long periods of development as author Anthony Doerr tries to make his point. He states that this is a book about books and the power of timeless literature passed down through many generations. His previous work, “All the Light We Cannot See,” polarized readers, and I expect something similar here. Read it if you want to think and immerse yourself.

"Great Circle" by Maggie Shipstead weaves together two stories about a revolutionary female pilot with a troubled background and the actress selected to portray her. The author wastes no time in illuminating the horrors of incest, hypersexuality, and death. Both tales have a great deal of sadness, but you learn why we need to hear them together immediately. As with any story like this worth its salt, you enjoy one timeline just enough that you care but want to know what is going on in the other one.

Marian, the aspiring pilot, battles through issues like gender identity and loss. At the same time, Hadley, the actress, struggles with fame and the commitments associated with singing onto a franchise past its time. Of course, neither is perfect, but they have an added focus on them, one because of a small town and the other because of public scrutiny. Like Lucy pulling the football away from Charlie Brown, you know their tendencies will lead to more problems, but you care enough to root for them.

The character development is top-notch, and you always want to know more about Hadley, Marian, and twin brother Jamie. Shipstead wastes absolutely no time pointing out how all main characters have a tough lot in life and making you doubt their success. The writer uses the storyline to show the bond between twins, the struggle of flying planes as a woman in the 1930s, and the internal conflict involved when a movie star must decide to pursue work in which they find her passion. A great deal happens in 593 pages.

"Great Circle" refers to a pilot's tight arc to travel from one end of the world to another. It has a significant double meaning as we walk through the circle of life with Marian and Hadley from incredible highs and devastating lows. My great process has had both, but Marian goes through sexual assault and an abusive relationship, and you wonder how she carries on with her life. Her ability to fly, unfortunately, remains tied to her marriage, so she begrudgingly goes along with a horrible, subservient arrangement.

Many fans could find something to love here: aircraft fanatics, feminists, World War II buffs, and twins, believe it or not, will relate to what Marian endures. The book reads like an epic but comes across as much shorter due to its considerable timeframe. When we finally transition into wartime, it simply seems just another obstacle. Still, Marian and her twin brother Jamie find ways to contribute and realize how many Americans did the same thing then. War is hell, and authors keep finding new ways to remind us of that.

(Note: often, I will take notes as I read if I have thought that could be relevant. Do not think you know the book's ending or meaning until it ends. Trust me).

"Firekeeper's Daughter" by Angeline Boulley tells the story of meth processing in the Native American community. They have a strong sense of values and history and tell their children to think seven generations ahead when making decisions.

They list the novel as "young adult," but it pushes the limits of the genre. The nineteen-year-old protagonist has intercourse and a few pothead friends. Unfortunately, she also survives a vicious sexual assault so list your trigger warnings accordingly.

Because drugs lead to murder, one questions the usual assertion that the bad guys qualify as non-violent criminals. Daunis, our hero, goes undercover when the deaths hit too close to home.
When we question the identity of the criminals, the number of characters seems just right. We know the shady ones from the wise ones. Like any thriller, you question what the young girl does to put herself in danger but feel for her simultaneously.

Boulley has an M.P.A. and worked as Director of the Office of Indian Education. Amidst some whodunit, cliches is a world of culture that will inform the best-read of history buffs. I am happy that I read this.

“A Million Things” by Emily Spurr takes a semi-common theme and mixes it with a new narrative style. Rae ends up “home alone” when her mother disappears, but she narrates and writes in a diary to her parent. She keeps her head down and avoids attention until her older neighbor falls and needs her help. So many write about misanthropes nowadays, but Rae manages well, and we root for her.
The abandonment theme will remind many of another great novel, “Where the Crawdads Sing,” and the comparisons qualify. Here, we have a younger child of 10 and at least the hope that the parents will return. The other motif, where an adult with problems meets a kid and develops an unlikely bond, has been done before, but Spurr does it well, creating a rare air of sympathy for a hoarder. Society seldom does that.

Seeing the events unfold from the eyes of a child will enchant you because Rae has wisdom beyond her years. Encountering an adult with an equal desire to maintain a secret creates an instant bond that makes the abandonment hurt less. To take an abandoned child and make her the one for whom you feel less sorry is a feat in writing. I, for instance, need to clean my house but wouldn’t cry if someone pulled papers into the trash.

You go pretty far in the novel without resolving the central conflict. A reader with children around the same age as the protagonist will cringe at the vision of their offspring trying to make it on their own with only their ingenuity. Automatically, I thought of shows like “The First 48” and wondered how long such a discovery would take. Even the most intelligent child would have some “tells despite small-town secrecy.”

Reading about abandonment in any form would challenge the most strong-willed of readers. But, by the end, you feel like you know Rae and Lettie and wish the best to them. Could you survive on your own at age 10? However, Emily Spurr has some secrets, like the underrated film “The Upside of Anger.” Things are not always like they seem, and sometimes the answer will sadden you more than your original assumptions.

"The Lincoln Highway' by Amor Towles has a lot of ambition, telling a 576-page book from multiple points of view that takes place over ten days. He also does not use quotation marks, which takes a little adjusting. However, it is, at its core, a road trip that keeps going wrong. We meet 18-year-old Emmett, who has ostensibly lost both of his parents, so you almost hate the author for subjecting our hero to a slew of indignities.

To summarize the plot: Emmett just finished a year-long sentence for involuntary manslaughter at a work camp. He returns home to find that his father has passed and left the family farm in insurmountable debt. A warden drove him home and two of his friends stowed away in the trunk. Emmett and his brother Billy decide to go to California to find their mother. Unfortunately, the stowaways, Duchess and Woolly, have other plans.

Since we have multiple perspectives, we time-jump and learn a lot. A biblical story from a nun about how two forces weigh us down(the wrongs we have done to others and those iniquities that others have inflicted on us) drives the novel. These boys are obsessed with righting their wrongs and enacting revenge. But, ultimately, they are unsure about where they stand in that regard.
In my college theatre class, our instructor told us that Ibsen's "A Doll's House" climax occurs at the very end with a door slam. I felt the same way about "Little Fires Everywhere," but "The Lincoln Highway peaks late. The last eighty pages have much to say about the characters and their fatal flaws. You won't want to stop reading after that.

My favorite quote from professional reviewers is when they say that a work "insists on itself." Despite a few repeated quotes and themes, you will not know what the book is truly about until the end, which makes it all the more rewarding. Please put this in my top 5 for the year, as it probably has the best and most addicting story. I would love to share this with someone.

October 23rd, 1915: "Stories from Suffragette City" has the ambitious goal of telling you 13 different stories that take place on this important day in Women's history. Think about what this meant across the span of social classes. The first entry, "Apple Season" by Lisa Wingate, shows us why not everyone agreed with this noble mission.

The works of fiction feature real people in imagined situations, as in "A First Step" by M.J. Rose, a tale in which the family that gave us Tiffany & Co. struggles with providing to the cause of suffrage. "Deeds Not Words" by Steve Berry shows us how many detractors had and, more importantly, gives us a glimpse into how men rationalized that way of thinking at the time.

The best anthologies have subtle connections among the stories but spin yarns that could function well by themselves. You feel a sense of satisfaction when you see the link between the second and third entries. New York works as a setting for the novel since so much occurred. The characters live ordinary lives but seem overwhelmed by their surroundings, and the reader feels that claustrophobia.

Stories like "Boundless, We Ride" by Jamie Ford take the historical aspects as a central role. For example, seeing suffrage through the eyes of Chinese Americans shows the types of prejudice that people assumed back then. "American Womanhood" by Dolen Perkins-Valdez asks us what Americans did when confronting one form of oppression by getting in touch with others that still lie beneath them since American still allows them.

Some people would rather gloss over parts of history that they would rather forget. Still, we must remember when politics allowed people to deny fundamental rights and rationalize that this exclusion existed for the greater good. Every segment has a similar message, but I am confident anyone who borrows the book from me will find one they love. We are downsizing, so I would be happy to pass this on to someone who could receive the same joy.

“Klara and the Sun” by Kazuo Ishiguro qualifies as “speculative fiction,” a giant “what-if” to a society that has pushed the limits of Artificial Intelligence and showed its limitations as well. Which parts of the human experience would escape even the most advanced computerized being? Would the “emotions” of an “item” that children chose affect how we look at commerce and replacement in today’s society? How quickly do we “move on”?
Anyone who has read these reviews (thank you, my enablers) knows that I require a lot of story development to accept the universe. So here, I had to cheat with a few Google searches to understand some of the intricacies. Luckily, others had the same questions. Having Klara as the narrator takes you along for the journey because you know the world as soon as the Artificial Friend does and even sympathizes when human behavior confuses her.
Like someone who tries to find humor by telling purposefully bad jokes, you do not necessarily know when a situation is complex or ordinary since Klara’s processing may muddy the waters. Nevertheless, I credit the author for making the Artificial Friend a sympathetic character. For example, one character compares Klara to a vacuum cleaner multiple times, and AFs show how people in this society draw the line in different places.
Somehow, I have not read many books with heavy symbolism in my adult life, so I feel I could pass a quiz on most of my reading. But this one has a little more to make you think about religion, possession, and loyalty. Like the conflict between two divorced parents, the ordinary on the pages comes off as new because Klara’s eyes had not experienced such drama before. But, in a world divided on the concept of Artificial Friends, we accept the ground rules.
Once the stuff hits the fan, the book’s questions focus: what truly separates a human from technology’s best replica? When is utilizing technology to interrupt the will of nature problematic? Would people engage in “acceptable” stereotyping if genetic engineering occurs and refuse to believe that only one type of person meets their requirements? The characters here have extreme opinions about the topic, as I imagine today’s Americans would.

“The Sweetness of Water” by Nathan Harris continues the tradition of emotionally moving novels based on the Reconstruction. It weaves together two stories, one about formerly enslaved people and another about Confederate soldiers, both scary when you consider the context. Yet, as with any dark period, we as readers take comfort in acts of kindness and humanity; therefore, seeing newly freedmen find a relationship with a grieving father in Georgia will engross you.
The story goes like this: Prentice and Landry recently achieved freedom and sought paid work on George Walker’s Georgia farm. George and Isabelle mourned the death of their son in the war, but then young Caleb appeared on their doorstep in reasonably good shape. The kid has a major secret that led to his departure from the war. The flap warns us that this will lead to murder, but the tease leaves us wondering what will happen and how.
Most books live or die on character development, and Harris does not spare details. He even gives a mute character an equal amount of humanity. In the land of former enslavers and Confederates, this quickly could have gone off the rails and does not. Instead, since the death occurs “on screen,” we witness a crime story in which the readers genuinely care about the victim and even the perpetrators to an extent.
At the halfway point of the novel, you do not know if you will be reading an adventure story, a morality tale, a crime drama, or a mixture. Harris makes all these threads interesting enough that you will follow, regardless. I had trouble reading about unfair treatment and justice, even though the author probably portrayed the assailants accurately. Our fights for victims’ justice are not new.
I did not see the ending; the deck was stacked against our heroes. One solution seemed too far-fetched, and the other too depressing Debut novelist Harris has some skills in achieving the appropriate balance. As a reader who subjects himself to alternating slavery and Holocaust novels, I did not go into this expecting to whistle as I closed the book and received a thorough emotional workout, as will you.