Sociologist and activist Bianca Mabute-Louie has wrestled with a conundrum for her entire life: Is it better to assimilate into mainstream American culture, or embrace one’s own heritage and, thus, stand out? In her scholarly yet personal book, Unassimilable: An Asian Diasporic Manifesto for the 21st Century, Mabute-Louie finds these options to be a false binary. Twining memoiristic reflections with Asian American political and cultural history, her book proposes a third, freeing alternative: becoming unassimilable.
Mabute-Louie grew up in California’s San Gabriel Valley, an “ethnoburb” rich in Chinese groceries, language academies, churches and small businesses. She describes her popo (maternal grandmother) moving to the area from Hong Kong after a stressful divorce in her 70s. Able to speak Cantonese, prepare her favorite foods and make new friends in California thanks to the robust Chinese community, Mabute-Louie’s popo quickly thrived. “My popo and the ethnoburb demonstrate that we can create our own power and belonging without learning English, participating in White institutions, and Americanizing,” she writes. “But it is a communal endeavor, one that requires everybody’s imagination and care.” Rather than an act of individualism, unassimilability is an “interdependent community of popos finding each other.”
The author builds her book’s central case by describing her personal experience coming to racial consciousness, and discussing key selections from Asian American history and culture. She details the contrast between her ethnoburb and her largely white private school, her complex relationship with Chinese American Christian culture, and the liberatory framework she found for herself in academia through Ethnic Studies. The interspersed Asian American history ranges from American immigration quotas and bans during World War II, to the origins of the “model minority” stereotype, to fights over affirmative action’s value and impact on Asian students, to political conflicts both among broader communities of color and within Asian communities. At each chapter’s end, the author’s illustrations and comics provide bonus reflections.
Mabute-Louie shows how being unassimilable provides opportunity for wholeness, mission and community. “I am not ‘torn between two cultures,’ as they say, because I occupy a third space in the diaspora,” Mabute-Louie writes, “from where a collective identity emerges that is neither repulsed by foreignness nor longing for Whiteness, but adamantly unassimilable.”
In her powerful manifesto, Bianca Mabute-Louie unapologetically rejects assimilation and forges an Asian American identity on her own terms.
Who owns the wind? Should people use their own property as they see fit, even if it has an impact on their neighbors? Drawing on transcripts from court proceedings, county commission meetings and public inquiries, as well as a wealth of interviews, Wall Street Journal reporter Amy Gamerman explores these questions and others in her riveting The Crazies: The Cattleman, the Wind Prospector, and a War Out West.
In Big Timber, Montana, population 1,673, winds howl down from the Crazy Mountains, 30-odd jagged peaks that surround the valley in which generations of ranchers have eked out a living raising cattle or sheep. With views of the Yellowstone River, the land is marked by a rugged beauty. In recent years, wealthy, politically connected figures have built private retreats in the area. Most often, these folks are neighbors, as was the case of Rick Jarrett, a fifth-generation rancher on the land, and billionaire Robert Gordy, who “collected land the way other rich men collect art.” In 2015, Jarrett was struggling to pay his debts and secure the ranch for his family’s future generations. For Jarrett, as for any rancher, financial security was elusive because profits from the annual sale of cattle had to be turned back into maintaining the ranch, often with little left over.
When wind prospector Marty Wilde came along, offering to put up wind turbines on Jarrett’s ranch, the rancher jumped at the chance to profit off this natural commodity: the winds screaming down the Crazies. Wilde’s Crazy Mountain Wind company would also provide electricity to Big Timber, and have environmental and economic benefits for the whole town. Billionaire Gordy immediately objected to the plan: Windmills, he claimed, would be an eyesore, marring the beauty of vistas he enjoyed from his property. The Crazies tracks this sprawling modern-day David and Goliath epic through lawsuits and appeals and public hearings for over two years.
Gamerman’s captivating account of the struggle over private property, conservation, renewable energy and greed in a small corner of Montana is a gripping parable for our times.
Who owns the wind? A fifth-generation rancher and billionaire go to court over the matter in Amy Gamerman’s captivating The Crazies.
Reclaiming the Black Body: Nourishing the Home Within explores how eating disorders, or eating imbalances, as author Alishia McCullough aptly calls them, flourish under white, Western capitalist power structures, and have a unique impact on Black and brown women. McCullough investigates the origins of our negative relationships with food and our bodies, and shares the tools we can employ to reach healing transformation.
McCullough, a licensed clinical mental health therapist and founder of Black and Embodied Counseling and Consulting, is profoundly engaging and empathetic. “Embodiment,” the core principle of McCullough’s counseling philosophy, means self-acceptance that stems from connecting the physical, mental and spiritual aspects of ourselves. She offers new language for clinical terms, writing, “It is not that our eating is disordered, it’s that our relationship to our bodies and how we have come to nourish ourselves has become fragmented and created imbalance within us.” She’s specifically concerned with how historical forces have caused this fragmentation. For example, body-hatred as experienced by Black people can be traced to chattel slavery, lack of land ownership and food scarcity; one way to process this is through somatic therapy, which McCullough defines as “a body-centered approach that examines the mind-body connection.”
This book serves as a much-needed foil to the misinformation and stigma against fat people, especially Black and Indigenous women in larger bodies. Along with sharing her own experiences in these areas, McCullough covers subjects like patriarchal indoctrination, body-shaming, fatphobia and Black beauty standards. As much as Reclaiming the Black Body is a historical and sociocultural study, it’s also a deeply insightful guide for people of color struggling with body image, self-worth and confusion around what is healthy. It takes sharp aim at diet culture, self-imposed eating restrictions and so-called “health journeys” popular in Western society. In guided practice segments at the end of each chapter, McCullough turns to the reader and asks questions to help them reflect on how food and body insecurity have played a role in their lives.
McCullough specifically addresses Black women throughout: “You are dealing with a normal adaptive response to surviving in a system that was invented to deem your existence as something that should not have survived past the plantation,” she insists, adding, “I repeat: It is not your fault.” Innovative and groundbreaking, Reclaiming the Black Body asks us to consider the ways in which we are disconnected from ourselves and why. Embodiment is a lifelong revolutionary act that requires support and self-compassion. McCullough assures us that it’s worth it, and there is hope and healing ahead.
Alishia McCullough’s groundbreaking Reclaiming the Black Body takes a sharp aim at diet culture, providing a much-needed foil to the misinformation and stigma about fat people and a deeply insightful guide for women of color struggling with body image.
American ideology stresses the value of hard work, tying it not just to wealth but to character. But we know hard work doesn’t always pay: Today, income inequality is worse than ever and wages have stagnated. But the pernicious idea that one’s value is tied to their employment status persists, influencing policies around welfare, housing, education and more. The COVID-19 pandemic changed many people’s views on work and government aid, but also inspired employers to rail against workers who sought employment elsewhere. It is against the pandemic backdrop that Adam Chandler begins 99% Perspiration: A New Working History of the American Way of Life, which seeks to break down the myth of the American work ethic and offer new ways to think about our relationship with our jobs.
Chandler, a journalist who traced the history of modern America through fast food in 2019’s Drive-Thru Dreams, uses the first half of his book to track how the U.S. came to place so much emphasis on the value of “hard work.” That’s not just the somber toil of farmsteading Pilgrims, but also the individualist hustle associated with Thomas Edison. Chandler dives into history, picking apart the folklore that became the basis for our modern attitude towards work, from Benjamin Franklin’s musings to the glitz of the Chicago World’s Fair.
There’s an element of travel journalism at play, as he visits areas like Plymouth Rock and an Osage Nation reservation in Oklahoma. Sometimes these excursions feel more like detours from the subject at hand, as Chandler sets up a stronger second half, which slices through modern Americans’ unhealthy relationship to work. Technology keeps office workers tethered to their desks regardless of time or location, low-wage workers struggle with erratic schedules, and politicians decry the neediest as leeches. While Chandler explores possible solutions, like a universal basic income, he also calls for a realignment of this country’s values, touting the benefits of a society more invested in the health of the community than the potential for individuals to strike it rich.
Chandler’s breezy writing style makes the book an easy read with plenty of eye-popping statistics and gut-wrenching anecdotes. More importantly, 99% Perspiration will make readers question their own relationship to work, what their jobs mean to them, and why employment is so integral to our identity.
Adam Chandler’s history of labor can make readers question their own relationship to work, what their jobs mean to them, and why employment is so integral to our identity.
The Serviceberry: Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World is the latest offering from botanist Robin Wall Kimmerer, an enrolled member of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation, one of the great Anishinaabe peoples of the Great Lakes. This slim but powerful volume continues the work of her previous books, including Gathering Moss and the New York Times bestseller Braiding Sweetgrass. Here, she draws from the traditional Anishinaabe economy for her understanding of reciprocity and gift economies, ones where, she writes, “a system of redistribution of wealth [is] based on abundance and the pleasure of sharing.”
Through vivid descriptions of the heartbeats around her—cedar waxwings, bluebirds, neighbors sharing garden-grown zucchini—Kimmerer immerses readers in her kinship and connection to the land. Moving between Western science and her own Potawatomi knowledge, she illustrates an accessible model for building reciprocal relationships with both nonhuman and human life around us through the harvesting and sharing of a fruit known as Amelanchier—or serviceberry, “Saskatoon, Juneberry, Shadbush, Shadblow, Sugarplum, Sarvis.” Kimmerer writes that “ethnobotanists know that the more names a plant has, the greater its cultural importance” and informs us that serviceberries are medicinal fruits that also synchronize “the seasonal rounds of traditional Indigenous people, who move in an annual cycle through their homelands to where the foods are ready.”
Kimmerer breaks down how an extractive economic system like capitalism, which focuses on individualism, competition and exploitation of resources, impacts our spirits; she does so in a language and tone that is generous, even toward the violence of such a system. Indigenous people, she explains, change themselves to suit the land’s changes of harvest, whereas Western methods of farming attempt to make the land suit a population’s desires and consumptions. “We force the food to come to us, at considerable financial and ecological costs,” Kimmerer notes, “rather than following the practice of taking what has been given to us, each in its own time.”
“The land is the source of all goods and services, which are distributed in a kind of gift exchange: one life is given in support of another. The focus is on supporting the good of the people, not only an individual.” The Serviceberry is a kind reminder that we would do well to restore the sovereignty and practices of Indigenous peoples for the present and future of our world.
Botanist Robin Wall Kimmerer, author of Braiding Sweetgrass, returns with a powerful meditation on economics rooted in abundance and sharing.
When we bring our mobile phone to life with a tap or settle in behind the wheel of our car, few of us give much thought to the raw materials required to make these sometimes miraculous- seeming devices work. Journalist Vince Beiser has reflected deeply on that subject, and the result, Power Metal: The Race for the Resources That Will Shape Our Future, is a sharp cautionary tale about the dilemmas facing humanity as we advance deeper into what he calls the Electro-Digital Age, especially as we pursue the essential transition to an energy-renewable future.
Everything comes with a cost, Beiser reminds us, even when it comes to the use of so-called critical metals like lithium, cobalt and nickel. These resources are fundamental to the massive expansion of electric cars and the clean energy sources (namely solar and wind power) that are necessary to combat climate change. What makes that truth problematic, he argues, is that the inevitable price of progress often falls most heavily on the residents of impoverished countries who bear the burden of first extracting these materials and later disposing of the batteries and printed circuit boards, for example, in which they’re used.
Beiser’s journey to this insight takes him from the streets of his hometown of Vancouver, British Columbia, where he tracks an “urban miner” digging through dumpsters for salvageable products like copper wiring, to a lithium mining operation in Chile’s Atacama desert, to a garbage dump in Lagos, Nigeria, where “e-waste scrappers” work in hazardous conditions to recycle electronic products. Power Metal is a concise, but thoroughly researched, work crammed with eye-popping statistics—among them the fact that 75 pounds of ore must be mined to build one four-and-a-half ounce iPhone. It investigates highly touted technologies like sea mining, whose promised benefits may conceal massive environmental risks.
In the final section of his book, Beiser offers some prescriptions to reduce the planet’s insatiable demand for resources that go beyond costly and energy-intensive recycling, including broadening the scope of right to repair laws, making urban spaces more friendly to bicyclists and deeply questioning our infatuation with the automobile. Whatever one thinks of the practicality of some of his proposals, Beiser has performed a vital service by alerting both policymakers and ordinary citizens to some of the critical choices facing us.
Power Metal sounds the alarm on the environmental and social consequences of electronic and digital energy—and how the ways we are combating climate change come at a cost.
“So often, we hear stories about the first person to do something: the innovators, the pioneers,” Eliot Stein writes in his introduction to Custodians of Wonder: Ancient Customs, Profound Traditions, and the Last People Keeping Them Alive. “But rarely is there a whisper for the last person to carry on a tradition, or a pause to look back and consider how these rites have shaped us and the places we come from.” Stein offers more than a whisper as he highlights 10 such customs around the world, profiling the women and men who preserve them.
Some of these customs are food- or craft-based, like the rare Sardinian pasta so fine that it’s called su filindeu (threads of God); and an ancient West African percussion instrument called a balafon that has been protected by a tiny village for 800 years. Others are rituals or jobs, like that of the night watchman in Ystad, Sweden, who every night climbs 14 stories of a 13th-century church to a bell tower to keep watch over the village, blowing a horn every 15 minutes to declare that all is well.
Stein sets his scenes in vividly painted settings. Introducing the temple village of Aranmula, on India’s southwestern coast, he writes, “Coconut trees swooped low like Nike swooshes over the water’s edge. . . . The night before, hot, heavy raindrops the size of nickels had fallen sideways in sheets.” Each chapter offers an in-depth profile of a practitioner, like Sudhammal J., Aranmula’s 48-year-old “Secret Lady Keeper,” who carries on her family’s ancient craft of melting tin, copper and other metals to make a highly reflective mirror believed to reveal one’s true self. Throughout these profiles, Stein threads cultural, geographic and political history, drawing out a few key details, and compressing centuries of history into a few paragraphs.
Despite the subtitle, not all the book’s customs are ancient. Asia’s last film poster painter practices a 20th-century craft. Nor are all the customs disappearing: The Japanese maker of traditional fermented soy sauce has seen demand grow, and he’s committed to helping others learn traditional techniques. Ultimately, Custodians of Wonder is a hopeful book, making the case that seemingly idiosyncratic and antiquated practices in distant corners of the world still matter; they reveal a particular place’s identity, and offer comfort, community and beauty even through centuries of change.
Eliot Stein’s vivid Custodians of Wonder documents the last people maintaining some of the world’s ancient cultural traditions, and proves that comfort, community and beauty never get old.
Carrie Lowry Schuettpelz, an enrolled member of the Lumbee tribe and a former advisor on homelessness and Native American issues in the Obama administration, loves data. When she noticed that the number of people self-identifying as “American Indian or Alaska Native” on the U.S. Census has more than doubled since 2000, while the number of enrolled members of federally recognized tribes has remained low, she wanted to know why. In The Indian Card: Who Gets to Be Native in America, Schuettpelz not only details how these records hide a history of racism, genocide and erasure, but also how they continue to affect Native people.
The federal government has recorded the number of Native Americans throughout its history, with varying degrees of accuracy. Before ejecting Natives from their land and forcing them on death marches to reservations, the counts were expansive. But when records were used to mete out some kind of reparative benefit, the government’s definition of “tribe” or “Indian” was contracted to exclude as many people as possible. These rules also dictated tribal policy: To receive recognition from the federal government, tribes must have a constitution with similarly restrictive qualifications for membership.
Schuettpelz uses archival records to divulge insights into America’s disastrous history with Native people, while her in-depth interviews with present-day Indigenous Americans reveal how their lives and identities continue to be shaped by that history. For example, the Meskwaki constitution requires its members to trace their ancestry patrilineally. Tricia Long, one interviewee, is “the epitome of what it means to be part of a tribe,” yet she cannot pass her Meskwaki membership onto her older son because his father is white. Her younger son, whose father is Meskwaki, is entitled to tribal benefits like “land rights on the settlement, per capita payments, access to health care, housing assistance.” Her older son is entitled to none of this.
Schuettpelz herself has questions about her own identity. She is enrolled as a Lumbee member because one of her grandparents was Lumbee, but she did not grow up in the Lumbee community. Is she, she asks herself, Native enough? Her questions are open-ended, and her responses are invitations to further conversations in this powerful and important read.
Carrie Lowry Schuettpelz’s powerful The Indian Card considers the history of Native American tribal membership and its impacts on people today.
The crusading savant with messy hair and scattered papers is a common protagonist in legal thrillers. The archetype—played by Mark Ruffalo or Julia Roberts or Matt Damon in films over the years—comes to life in attorney Jim Scott, the center of gravity in Valley So Low: One Lawyer’s Fight for Justice in the Wake of America’s Great Coal Catastrophe. Here, Tennessee-based journalist Jared Sullivan chronicles a yearslong battle in the wake of one of America’s worst environmental disasters.
In December 2008, a dike ruptured at a power plant in East Tennessee, deluging the surrounding rivers and landscape with more than 1 billion gallons of coal waste. The Tennessee Valley Authority, a federally owned electric utility corporation, pledged to clean up its mess, and hired engineering conglomerate Jacobs Engineering to oversee the work.
It didn’t take long before the cleanup workers started falling ill. Though they’d been told repeatedly the site was safe and the air was clean, the workers began to suspect the coal ash they were cleaning up was to blame for their new ailments and faltering health. They alleged that Jacobs was preventing them from wearing protective gear and tampering with air quality sensor data in an effort to avoid further public scrutiny and speed the lucrative project along.
Sullivan tells the story of the workers, the TVA and Jacobs officials in charge and, centrally, Scott and his collaborators, who took on the workers’ case in an effort to extract justice from the tragic disaster. The author paints vivid portraits of key characters; love lives and family dramas help render the victims in color, making their plight all the more upsetting.
Horrifying details and anecdotes pile up as the story unfolds, and it’s easy to understand how righteous anger could fuel a lengthy legal quest with no promise of financial reward. Propulsive and written with flair, Valley So Low is a valuable addition to the pantheon of legal thrillers.
Jared Sullivan’s Valley So Low chronicles an environmental disaster in Tennessee with the flair of a propulsive legal thriller.
Morgan Talty follows up Night of the Living Rez with Fire Exit, a beautifully written novel that is sometimes funny, often heartbreaking and hopeful against ...
This remarkable novel is both a prequel and a sequel to Tommy Orange’s Pulitzer Prize finalist, There There, picking up with his unforgettable characters Orvil ...
In Where Wolves Don’t Die, Anton Treuer delivers an unflinching yet healing story that showcases Ojibwe culture while exploring themes of forgiveness and reconciliation.
Read if your Halloween plans are: A horror movie marathon, specifically A24 horror movies
Ezri Maxwell doesn’t know whether their childhood home had ghosts, exactly, but they do know that it was haunted and determined to maim, traumatize and scare them and their Black family into leaving their mostly white Dallas suburb. Desperate to distance themselves from a childhood of constant dread, Ezri and their sisters fled the former model home as soon as they were old enough. Their parents, however, stayed where they were—right until the day they died under mysterious circumstances. At its core, Rivers Solomon’s Model Home is a study of the interior landscape of someone trying to make sense of their life in the wake of extreme tragedy. Ezri’s head is cluttered with the detritus of trauma, from their mother’s ambivalence toward them as a child to the repercussions of living with mental health issues for years, (“a host of diagnoses—which change with whatever clinician I see”). A disturbing tale that explores self-doubt, family drama and childhood trauma, Model Home is a powerful and gut-wrenching addition to the haunted house pantheon.
Read if your Halloween plans are: Exploring potentially haunted places—abandoned strip malls, creaky old houses, creepy caves … you get the idea.
If you’re in the mood for some spine-tingling stories, cozy up to Djinnology: An Illuminated Compendium of Spirits and Stories From the Muslim World, a fictitious (or is it?) compendium that is both fascinating and creepy, and made all the more so by Pulitzer Prize-winner Fahmida Azim’s striking illustrations. Seema Yasmin, a journalist, professor and physician, has created a fictional narrator named Dr. N, a taxonomist and ontologist who has traveled the world to investigate the sometimes benevolent, sometimes malevolent djinn. Djinn, Dr. N writes, have been “haunting humanity since pre-Islamic times.” He submits the fruits of his research to his academic committee to explain his long and unexplained absence from class, in this volume of stories from around the world that capture the long history and great variety of djinn. Many of these stories are related to human events, such as one concerning a ghostlike horseman who allegedly appeared in Cairo’s Tahrir Square at the height of the Arab Spring. Another terrifying tale of more dubious origins takes place in London, when a woman delivering her husband’s specimen to an IVF clinic spots what she thinks is an abandoned baby in the middle of the road. She stops, of course, but things do not go as she expects. Djinnology is beautifully designed, with maps, English and Arabic inscriptions and more, gamely selling a high-octane, between-two-worlds vibe. Most of all, Azim’s haunting illustrations in smoky colors perfectly portray this menagerie of spirits. Readers will find themselves looking over their shoulders.
Read if your Halloween plans are: A bar crawl in a tiny costume, weather be damned
Quite often in fiction, the figure of the vampire has represented loneliness, but we’ve arguably never seen that sense of yearning quite the way Rachel Koller Croft portrays it in her new novel, We Love the Nightlife. Croft’s protagonist, Amber, is frozen in her party girl prime, turned in the waning days of the 1970s by her maker, the beautiful and manipulative Nicola. Decades later, Amber begins to imagine what life might be like without Nicola, and considers an escape plan. But Nicola’s influence is powerful, her ambitions are vast and her appetite for control deeper than Amber ever imagined. Despite her vampiric nature, Amber feels like one of us. This is mainly due to Croft’s skill; her conversational, warm and relatable prose depicts Amber not as a lonely monster, but as a person longing for freedom in a savage world covered in glitter and awash with pulsing music. We also get to see Nicola’s side of the story and her own brand of yearning, giving the book an antagonist who’s not just remarkably well-developed, but human in her own twisted way. These dueling perspectives, coupled with memorable side characters and a beautifully paced plot, make We Love the Nightlife an engrossing, darkly funny, twisted breakup story that’s perfect for vampire fiction lovers and fans of relationship drama alike.
Read if your Halloween plans are: Watching a brainy horror documentary, or peeking at spooky clips on YouTube
Any horror writer doing their job knows how to tap into the fears that plague us most. Jeremy Dauber’s American Scary:A History of Horror, from Salem to Stephen King and Beyond provides a robust account of how art has reflected American dread for centuries. As it turns out, our history is rife with foundational fear, making it prime territory for some scary storytelling. Dauber starts his “tour of American fear” with our country’s bloody beginnings and proclivity for blaming the devil for everything from bad weather to miscarriage (hello, Salem!). He then passes through slavery, the Industrial Revolution, the Civil War and beyond to more contemporary paranoias reflected in film: murderous technology (The Terminator), individual indifference (the Final Destination series) and surveillance (Paranormal Activity), to name a few. Dauber’s attention to the details of myriad cultural touchstones, both famous and obscure, will entice those who care to tiptoe deeper into the darkest of the dark. American Scary’s greatest success is making readers consider what art may be born of our late-night anxieties. Spooky stuff, huh?
Read if your Halloween plans are:Curling up in a chair at home, reading a lightly spooky book or one of the more gothic Agatha Christies
Librarian Sherry Pinkwhistle resides in a quiet hamlet in upstate New York. The only out of the ordinary detail about Ms. Pinkwhistle is that she loves to solve a good murder mystery—not only those in the books she protects and enjoys at work, but also the real-life, grisly deaths in the otherwise sleepy little town of Winesap. But when a string of local murders hits a little too close to home, Sherry realizes that she can no longer remain an unattached bystander. A demon, or several, might be at the heart of these ever-increasing deaths, and Sherry will need the help of her skeptical friends and her possibly-possessed cat to root out the evil in Winesap. C.M. Waggoner’s The Village Library Demon-Hunting Society is a stunning blend of genres, a dark supernatural adventure masquerading as a cozy mystery—and by the time readers realize this, they, like Sherry, are too deeply entrenched in the case to let it go. Waggoner infuses the pages with darkly humorous scenes and snappy dialogue, as well as unexpected magical touches that hearken back to the author’s previous fantasy novels, a combination that’s perfect for fans of horror tropes as well as lovers of mystery. Sherry Pinkwhistle is a sleuth to be reckoned with, and beneath her frumpy and soft exterior lies a pleasant surprise: a clever, determined heroine who will stop at nothing to protect the place she calls home and the people who live there.
Read if your Halloween plans are: Circling up with friends and family for a night of scary stories
Eerie Legends: An Illustrated Exploration of Creepy Creatures, the Paranormal, and Folklore From Around the World arrives like Halloween candy, just in time for the spookiest season of the year. Austin, Texas-based artist Ricardo Diseño’s bold, offbeat illustrations don’t simply complement these spine-tingling stories, they lead the way. Each chapter blends elements of fiction and nonfiction, and includes a corresponding full-page illustration that stands on its own as a fully realized piece of art. The horror elements here are plenty scary, but skew toward the creature-feature end of the spectrum—think Universal Studio monsters, or even Troma’s The Toxic Avenger. The chapter on Krampus details the yuletide terror’s appearance with frightening specificity: “Part man, part goat, and part devil. . . . His tongue is red, forked, creepy, and always whipping around.” Diseño’s hoofed monster, straight out of the Blumhouse cinematic universe, is shown in the midst of abducting a child. Each chapter ends with a campfire-style tale about the designated monster, written with Lovecraftian zeal by Steve Mockus. As an added incentive, the cover glows in the dark—a feature I hadn’t noticed until after I fell asleep with it on my bedside table. Talk about eerie.
Read if your Halloween plans are: A hike contemplating the macabre beauty of seasonal decay—be sure to leave the woods before dark!
Nobel laureate Olga Tokarczuk’s fabulous novel, The Empusium: A Health Resort Horror Story, opens in 1913, when Polish 24-year-old Mieczyslaw Wojnicz arrives in the village of Görbersdorf, Germany, to be treated for tuberculosis. Tokarczuk is known for her penchant for the mythical and her deft, dark satirical wit, and as the subtitle, “A Health Resort Horror Story,” would lead readers to hope, the forests above the village whisper and echo with eerie sounds. The narration seems to come from ghostly entities who at times “vacate the house via the chimney or the chinks between the slate roof tiles—and then gaze from afar, from above.” A cemetery in a nearby town discloses evidence of a ritual killing every November. It is September, and the clock is ticking. Translated from Polish by Antonia Lloyd-Jones, The Empusium is about the rigid patriarchal world of pre-WWI Europe, and the tension between rationality and emotion. It is also about a young person coming of age—like Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain, from which it draws inspiration. Facing a threat he does not understand, Mieczyslaw responds to the mysteries around him with curiosity and seeks his own way forward. Tokarczuk also favors a new path and, as usual, casts her enthralling spell.
—Alden Mudge
Whether you’re a homebody or a thrill-hunter, we’ve got a seasonal, spine-tingling read for you.
As Gillian Anderson prepared for her role as a sex therapist in the British TV show Sex Education (which this writer quickly added to her Netflix queue), she read the 1973 cult classic My Secret Garden, a compendium of fantasies collected by novelist Nancy Friday. In Friday’s book, Anderson writes, it was revealed that “. . . for some of us, the sex we have in our head may be more stimulating than the physical nuts and bolts of any coupling, no matter how hot. Unconstrained by assumed social conventions, self-consciousness, or perhaps the fear of making our partner uncomfortable, in our imagination we can indulge in our deepest, most transgressive desires.”
Inspired by Friday, Anderson put out an invitation for women and genderqueer people to write down their own fantasies and send them to her. She soon began amassing a “torrent of unbridled passion from around the world.” The result is Want: Sexual Fantasies by Anonymous, an extensive series of writings—some less than a page long, but most a page or two—detailing a multitude of diverse fantasies. What began as a platform for women to anonymously share fantasies has turned into something like a calling.
The polyvocality of Want means there’s something for everyone, but it also means that you’ll probably come across a fantasy you’ve never considered, as with Anderson, who writes that she was fascinated by the number of women with dreams of being milked like a cow. “The human imagination has few limits and our sexual desires and fantasies are no different, yet are still treated as taboo,” she writes in the book’s introduction. “Is everyone ashamed and pretending not to be?”
Anderson herself is among the anonymous writers here. There’s no hint at which of the many fantasies is hers; the only identity markers at the end of every essay are nationality, income, religion, sexual orientation, relationship status and whether the writer has children. “I was terrified of putting my fantasy down on paper,” she writes, “lest someone was able to discern which was mine.” But after reading more than 1,000 others, she finds that “sexual liberation must mean freedom to enjoy sex on our terms, to say what we want, not what we are pressured or believe we are expected to want.”
With luck, this provocative, original volume will help women and genderqueer people feel more empowered and less ashamed.
Gillian Anderson asked women to send her their sexual fantasies. The result is a provocative, original volume that will help women and genderqueer people feel more empowered and less ashamed.
National Book Award-winning author Ta-Nehisi Coates’ 2015 book Between the World and Me, and his 2017 essay collection, We Were Eight Years in Power, exposed the impact of slavery and Jim Crow on our understanding of America’s origins and its present. Written with clarity and forensic objectivity, his revolutionary insights into our society challenged us to not only acknowledge this past but also actively redress its lasting harms. His new book, The Message, is personal and introspective; four related but standalone essays chronicle Coates’ own revelations about the role stories play in shaping and misshaping our perceptions of the world.
Coates argues that writing is both an artistic and a political act: Authors must write with clarity and create narratives that explain and expose the world with urgency—and they must examine the stories we have been told as well as those we tell ourselves. How do authors extract truth from history, separate myth from fact? Coates travels to the Senegalese island of Gorée, which is prominent for its perceived significance in the slave trade. He acknowledges it as a “mythical site of departure”: According to scholars, very few enslaved people actually passed through its infamous Door of No Return. But on the island, Coates had a remarkable epiphany about the ways in which the myth-making about Gorée as “sacred, a symbolic representation of our last stop before the genocide” has obscured the lasting impact of colonialism on Africa. Still, that myth holds unique power: “We have a right to our imagined traditions, to our imagined places,” Coates concludes, “and those traditions and places are most powerful when we confess that they are imagined.”
His journey to East Jerusalem and the West Bank brings questions about objective storytelling to the fore, in an essay both heartrending and hopeful. Coates courageously allows the reader to see the confusion, grief and anger he feels observing firsthand how Palestinians are relegated to second class citizenship in a segregated society, all while Israel is hailed as “the only democracy in the Middle East” by the West—a situation which he finds all too familiar. Coates reports learning that illegal settlements steal Palestinian land. He shares meals with both Palestinians and Israelis, including a former Israeli soldier who tells him that Israeli forces subject Palestinians to a “constant threat of violence,” with methods that include home invasions targeting known innocents. Coates reflects on how Palestinian writers are seldom allowed to contribute their voices, and an “elevation of complexity over justice” shapes the narrative about the region.
Searching and restless, The Message is filled with startling revelations that show a writer grappling with how his work fits into history and the present moment. Coates believes that writing can change the world. Achieving this mission is arduous, vital and necessary. These masterful essays will leave readers convinced that Coates is up to the task.
Ta-Nehisi Coates wrestles with the weighty responsibility of being a writer in The Message, a powerful collection of essays.
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