Mark Haber is perhaps one of the most influential yet low-key of tastemakers in the
book world. What Haber reads, people buy, because you know that when Haber recommends it,
it is the real deal.
As with one’s family, Loskutoff has a complicated relationship with the Northwest, one that cannot be reduced to a single definition such as “love” or “hate.” He is mixed up in this wild country, both as an insider Montana native and as an outsider.
Renee Gladman’s book occupies the intersection of the novel, poem, and work of nonfiction. It also spans a familiar world that is now shifting—an Anthropocentric world in the midst of its own calamities.
Garza's use of language and suspense is so skillful that she can remind us of the artifice of fiction in one moment, holding us up so we can see everything in its place, and in the next push our heads back beneath the surface of its conceit.
There is no better depiction of the way grief perches in the heart than recent books by Helen MacDonald and Max Porter.
Lee shifts the onus of responsibility of suicide from the individual to a complex societal structure. She implies that it is not that the person who dies by suicide is weak or selfish, but rather that the surrounding society is broken.
Dan Sheehan’s intertextual debut novel pursues the different calibers of memory, and asks to what extent we can and should control them.
Memoirs from Paul Kalanithi, Lucy Grealy, Jean-Dominique Bauby, and Porochista Khakpour teach us about turning the story of an ailing body into a work of art.
But in Montreal, according to Freure's speaker, everyone is a loser in the best sense of the word.
Often our ugliest and most tired characters are casually granted new pathways to reinvent and rebrand themselves, allowed safe distance from darker histories their creators would prefer we forget.