Stephenie Harrison

It often seems that an MFA in creative writing is a prerequisite for published authors today. However, Barbara Kingsolver has a different educational background fueling her works: Prior to trying her hand at fiction, she majored in biology and then completed a master’s degree in ecology and evolutionary biology. Kingsolver’s concern for the earth has never been so palpable—or so passionate—as in her latest novel, Flight Behavior, where global warming causes things to heat up in small-town Tennessee.

Flight Behavior begins with a breathtaking image: On the way to throw her good life away, Della­robia Turnbow is stopped dead in her tracks when she glimpses a lake of fire up in her family’s hills. Dellarobia believes her vision is a warning from above that she must mend her traitorous heart and put an end to her sinful ways. When the reality of what she has witnessed is revealed, the church announces that they are experiencing a modern-day miracle; but before long, scientists are swooping in to offer a darker, more sinister explanation for what is happening up on the mountain. Dellarobia soon finds herself embroiled in a battle between fact and faith—and her marriage, her family, her standing in the community, as well as her very conception of the world, hang in the balance.

Inspired by actual environmental events in Mexico, Kingsolver uses Flight Behavior as a platform to deftly enrobe the mounting evidence for climate change and its devastating effects in a satisfying narrative cocoon, an example of literary activism at its finest. Though Kingsolver’s agenda is far from subtle, it is a testament to her skill that the story never loses its way or its heart, and never seems pedantic. Melding the religious aspects of her breakaway hit, The Poisonwood Bible, with the ecological concerns documented in Animal, Vegetable, Mineral, this feels like the book that all of Kingsolver’s previous novels have been leading up to. The end result is a delicate symbiosis between the sacred and the scientific in this richly rewarding novel that will both entertain and incite its readers.

Half the fun of waiting for the next Tana French book comes from trying to predict who will be its star. Unlike many popular mystery series in which the same detective is featured time and again, French shakes things up with each book, promoting a previous supporting character to the lead role. Her fourth novel offers Faithful Place antagonist Mick “Scorcher” Kennedy a shot at redemption.

Broken Harbor revolves around the triple homicide of a father and two children who have been living on an all but abandoned development in the Brianstown area of Dublin—one of the many projects that were begun during the real estate boom and not completed when the market dropped. Mother and wife Jenny Spain survived the attack, but is barely hanging on in intensive care. Solving this kind of headline-grabbing case would make Mick untouchable on the squad, so even though Mick has personal reasons for giving wide berth to Brianstown—a place that is the source of his very worst memories—he partners with rookie detective Richie Curran and prepares to bag the biggest case of the year. It’s not until he and Richie are in too deep that Mick realizes he’s dealing with one of the creepiest cases of his career.

It may be hyperbolic to claim that French has reinvented the police procedural, but there’s no denying that her Dublin Murder Squad series has breathed fresh life into the genre, throwing the standard mystery tropes out the window. Rife with the ambiguity and uncertainty that reign supreme in real life, French’s novels are deliciously addictive, even though her protagonists—no matter how beloved or long-suffering—are not guaranteed a happy ending. Whether you are a fan of mysteries or not, Broken Harbor is complex storytelling at its most masterful and should not be missed.

With her first novel, A Discovery of Witches, Deborah Harkness experienced the kind of success few authors dare to dream of. At a time when there is no shortage of books devoted to creatures that go bump in the night, Harkness’ hefty tome—the first in a trilogy—managed to find its way into the hands of millions of readers. It introduced readers to Diana Bishop, a witch who denies her craft, and Matthew Clairmont, an austere geneticist who also happens to be a vampire, entrancing us with the irresistible—but forbidden—relationship that developed between the two. When last we saw Diana and Matthew, they were attempting to travel to the 16th century in an effort to preserve their lives and unlock the secrets surrounding Diana’s magic.

Shadow of Night picks up right where the previous book left off, with Diana and Matthew touching down in Elizabethan England. Their hunt for a witch who can help Diana harness her powers and the mysterious Ashmole 782 volume carries them through the labyrinthine streets of London, as well as across the sea to France and Prague. Initially reveling in her ability to bend time, Diana soon learns that you can travel across the globe and even across centuries, but the troubles of your life will always find you. As Diana struggles to master the secrets of her craft, she must also confront the fact that Matthew has been keeping some earth-shattering secrets.

From the very first pages of Shadow of Night it is evident that this novel is as much a love story about a bygone era as it is about Matthew and Diana. It overflows with a colorful cast of characters, many of whom Harkness has plucked straight from the history books, and Harkness renders the late 1500s in exquisite detail. At times, this meticulousness causes the plot to stall, but the writing is so rich, and the characters so compelling, readers are sure to forgive. Best of all, Harkness manages to execute with aplomb the act of answering old questions while posing new ones that will intensify anticipation for the final installment. Readers who have been counting down the days, take heart: The wait was most assuredly worth it.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE:
Read a Q&A with Deborah Harkness for A Discovery of Witches.

Toni Morrison has more than 15 literary awards to her name, including both a Pulitzer and a Nobel Prize. This goes a long way toward explaining why, rather than comparing her to other authors, Morrison is measured against herself. It is understood that a Toni Morrison novel will challenge and humble its readers in terms of content, language and scope, so the real question when picking up her newest novel is never “Will this be a good book?” but rather, “Will this book be as good as all her others?”

When it comes to Home, Morrison’s 10th novel, the short answer is a clear “yes.” This is a very good book that easily takes its place in Morrison’s canon. Although the writing feels somewhat stripped down, the story itself is ambitious and vital, belying the small size of the book itself.

Home is largely the story of Frank Money, who left behind both the safety and the shackles of small-town Lotus, Georgia, by enlisting to fight in Korea, vowing never to return. Alas, the horrors of war leave Frank shell-shocked and bruised, a shadow of his former self. With whiskey and the comfort of a woman named Lily, Frank manages to keep his misery at bay, but these things offer temporary relief. It is only when he receives word that his little sister Cee is dying, having suffered at the hands of a eugenics-obsessed doctor, that Frank finally musters up the courage to return to the place he once called home, where his true healing can begin.

In many ways, Home touches on themes and ideas that have formed the backbone of Morrison’s previous works, namely the search for identity and community as framed in the historic context of the black American experience. Life is rarely kind to Frank, Cee and Lily, yet Home is still an immensely compassionate narrative that speaks to the unrelenting resilience of the human spirit. Morrison’s characters are frequently bloodied and bruised, but they are never fully broken. If there is one thing Morrison has mastered in her 40 years of writing books, it’s how to pack a punch so hard your lungs crumple. Excruciating in the moment, the next breath you take is all the sweeter for it. It’s these juxtapositions of sadness and joy, despair and hope, darkness and light, that ultimately make Home such a visceral read.

Imagine you had the power to make streetlights dim when you walked beneath them and could probe the innermost secrets of the human mind. This is what life is like for Julia Severn, a young psychic whose mother committed suicide when she was just an infant. Though Julia’s powers are impressive, all attempts to contact her mother beyond the grave have been unsuccessful. Instead, Julia latches onto her mentor, Madame Ackerman, as an interim mother. Alas, Madame Ackerman’s powers are waning and in a fit of jealousy, she metes out a devastating psychic punishment that cripples Julia and sends her on the run. Despite her resolve to lead a normal life, Julia finds herself fighting to regain her health and her mystical gifts so that she can assist in the search for a provocative and elusive artist who just happens to have known her mother. What results is a sinister game of cosmic hide-and-seek in which Julia will be forced to confront her most deadly and dogged pursuer: her own grief.

Heidi Julavits' fourth novel is bold and brazen, but it is also one hell of a headtrip.

In case the above synopsis does not make it abundantly clear, Heidi Julavits’ fourth novel, The Vanishers, is bold and brazen, but it is also one hell of a headtrip. Perhaps the best way to describe it is to liken it to the mind-bending movies of David Lynch, for this is truly a puzzle wrapped in pages. The plot is serpentine and surreal, facts are fluid and nothing is out of bounds; one must be on perpetual guard, as not even Julia can be trusted in this tale where nothing is as it seems.

Some readers will certainly balk at the unconventional narrative leaps that Julavits asks them to take, but to do so would be a mistake. More than a metaphysical mystery, at its core The Vanishers is a stunningly candid examination of the dark side of grief, female rivalries and the critical bond between mothers and daughters. Countless books have already been written on these topics, but by straddling the line between the otherworldly and harsh reality, Julavits manages to take mainstream notions and transform them into something truly unique.

Penelope Lively has built a career on pushing the boundaries of the novel; indeed, her books are usually a special alchemy of meta-fiction and provocative storytelling. How It All Began proves no exception. While the leading lady of her recent tale may be waging war against the pitfalls of growing old, at 78 years old, Lively herself shows no signs of slowing down and proves she is still a writer in her prime.

How It All Began is populated with striking and dynamic characters, but it is also a novel of ideas. Putting her own spin on the “Butterfly Effect” of chaos theory, Lively examines the notion that one small event can have dramatic, far-reaching ramifications. In the traditional example, the flapping of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil could ultimately result in a tornado in Texas, but here, the catalyst is retired schoolteacher Charlotte Rainsford getting mugged on the streets of London. The resulting tumult not only disrupts Charlotte’s life, but also wreaks havoc on an expansive cast of characters, many of whom are not even aware of Charlotte’s existence. Relationships will be tested, the economy will crash, some characters will realize their dreams while others will find them shattered—all because of one old woman.

In essence, How It All Began is the business of life scaled to fit within the pages of a novel. What sets it apart is the way Lively constantly prods her characters to reflect upon the sum of their choices and the random machinations of which people are generally unaware, in order to take stock of their lives. One recurring theme in Lively’s novels that reappears here is the idea that life is random. It is only in retrospect that the human desire for meaning prompts us to impose a narrative structure on events. We like clear-cut explanations for why things happen as they do and for events to hold meaning; this is why we crave stories and find them wherever we look. But here, Lively gamely demonstrates that in reality, the flow of cause and effect is gnarled and convoluted, and that we could all so easily be living another life. Heavy stuff for a slim novel, yet the tone is never overly philosophical and the narrative is spritely. This is a book so vital, you will feel its heart thrum alongside your own as you read, its spell lasting long after its close.