Today, I started reading Junot Diaz‘s The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, one of The New York Times’ 100 Best Books of the Century. The book also won a Pulitzer Prize. Oscar is a sweet but disastrously overweight ghetto nerd who—from the New Jersey home he shares with his old-world mother and rebellious sister—dreams of becoming the Dominican J.R.R. Tolkien and, most of all, finding love.

But Oscar may never get what he wants. Blame the fukú—a curse that has haunted Oscar’s family for generations, following them on their epic journey from Santo Domingo to the USA. Encapsulating Dominican-American history, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao opens our eyes to an astonishing vision of the contemporary American experience. It explores the endless human capacity to persevere—and risk it all—in the name of love.

Weather: A Novel by Jenny Offil was a book that I was confused and uncertain if I wanted to finish for the first few pages. I am delighted that I did, and I highly recommend this book. Its brief diary-like dispatches about life in our time when we sense that we may all be doomed to a climate catastrophe made this a book I truly enjoyed reading. The subtext of the rise of right-wing strongmen in the USA and abroad adds to the crisis her dispatches describe.

Her Obligatory Note of Hope challenges all of us to engage in solutions instead of accepting doom.

How can we contribute to the common good? There are people all over the world trying to answer these questions. In big ways but also in small ways. In grand leaps but also in fits and starts.

I always thought it was ridiculous to try and fight for social change when I couldn’t even get my own house in order. How could a meat-eating, plane-flying, march-hating person like me ever find a place in the climate justice movement? But then I started to read about all the different ways ordinary people were refusing to give into fatalism and were exploring the possibilities of what they could do, what they might fight for in this half-ruined world of ours.

There were saints among these accidental activists, but also stone-cold hypocrites like me. Slowly, I began to see collective action as the antidote to my dithering and despair.

There’s a way in for everyone. Aren’t you tired of all this fear and dread?

Goodreads provides an overview of the book if you are not yet convinced to read it.

 Lizzie Benson is a very relatable woman who slid into her job as a librarian without a traditional degree. But this gives her a vantage point from which to practice her other calling: a fake shrink. She has tended to her God-haunted mother and her recovering addict brother for years. They have both stabilized for the moment, but Lizzie has little chance to spend her new free time with her husband and son before her old mentor, Sylvia Liller, proposes. She wants to hire Lizzie to answer the mail she receives: left-wingers worried about climate change and right-wingers concerned about the decline of western civilization. Sylvia has become famous for her prescient podcast, Hell and High Water, and wants to hire Lizzie to answer the mail she receives: from left-wingers worried about climate change and right wingers worried about the decline of western civilization.

As Lizzie dives into this polarized world, she begins to wonder what it means to keep tending your own garden once you’ve seen the flames beyond its walls. When her brother becomes a father and Sylvia a recluse, Lizzie is forced to address the limits of her own experience. But she still tries to save everyone, using everything she’s learned about empathy and despair, conscience and collusion, floundering the library stacks her years of wa.. And all the while the voices of the city keep floating in—funny, disturbing, and increasingly mad.

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Working by Robert A. Caro is a book of evocatively written essays on his life and work. Among the many valuable words of wisdom is his case that one needs to look at every piece of information, not just what we know when we begin. Far too often, people jump to conclusions without having learned all of the facts.

He describes what it was like to interview the mighty Robert Moses and to begin discovering the extent of the political power Moses wielded; the combination of discouragement and exhilaration he felt confronting the vast holdings of the Lyndon B. Johnson Library in Austin, Texas; his encounters with witnesses, including longtime residents wrenchingly displaced by the construction of Moses’ Cross-Bronx Expressway and Lady Bird Johnson acknowledging the beauty and influence of one of LBJ‘s mistresses. He gratefully remembers how, after years of working in solitude, he found a writers’ community at the New York Public Library, and details the ways he goes about planning and composing his books.

Caro recalls the moments at which he came to understand that he wanted to write not just about the men who wielded power but about the people and the politics that were shaped by that power. And he talks about the importance to him of the writing itself, of how he tries to infuse it with a sense of place and mood to bring characters and situations to life on the page. Taken together, these reminiscences–some previously published, some written expressly for this book–bring into focus the passion, the wry self-deprecation, and the integrity with which this brilliant historian has always approached his work.

I found this one of the best books I have read and recommend it to all readers.

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Today, I began reading “Corey Fah Does Social Mobility: A Novel” by Isabel Waidner. The book is about Corey Fah, a writer whose novel has just won the Fictionalization of Social Evils prize. Despite this achievement, the trophy and funds with the award still need to be in reach. The novel celebrates radical queer survival and challenges false notions of success.

Corey, their partner Drew, and their pet spider, Bambi Pavok, embark on a quest to find an elusive trophy with neon-beige color and UFO-like qualities. This journey takes them back to their childhood in the forest and includes a stint on a reality TV show. While facing the horrors of wormholes and time loops, Corey discovers the difference between a prize and a gift in a complex way.

Following the Goldsmiths Prize–winning Sterling Karat Gold, Isabel Waidner’s bold and buoyant new novel is about coming into one’s own, the labor of love, the tendency of history to repeat itself, and what ensues when a large amount of cultural capital is suddenly deposited in a place it has never been before.

The Garden of Letters by Alyson Richman was one of the first books I read after Jan died. It was the perfect love story to read after the loss of the love of my life. The love Jan and I shared was because we shared a portion of the soul of the other, and thus we were meant for each other from day one. 

The two primary characters – Elodie Bertolotti and Angelo Rosselli – resonated with me as they were also people who shared souls. The book “captures the hope, suspense, and romance of an uncertain era, in an epic intertwining story of first love, great tragedy, and spectacular bravery.“

As I turned every page, the story filled my heart with love and happiness as it reminded me of the love that Jan and I shared.

Portofino, Italy, 1943. A young woman steps off a boat in a scenic coastal village. Although she knows how to disappear in a crowd, Elodie is too terrified to slip by the German officers while carrying her poorly forged identity papers. She is frozen until a man she’s never met before claims to know her. In desperate need of shelter, Elodie follows him back to his home on the cliffs of Portofino.

Only months before, Elodie Bertolotti was a cello prodigy in Verona, unconcerned with world events. But when Mussolini’s Fascist regime strikes her family, Elodie is drawn into the burgeoning resistance movement by Luca, a young and passionate bookseller. As the occupation looms, she discovers that her unique musical talents, and her courage, have the power to save lives.

In Portofino, young doctor Angelo Rosselli gives the frightened and exhausted girl sanctuary. He is a man with painful secrets of his own, haunted by guilt and remorse. But Elodie’s arrival has the power to awaken a sense of hope that Angelo thought was lost to him forever.

I not only recommend this book, but I am also looking forward to reading more of her novels.

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I recently read “Something About Living” by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha, a poet and essayist whose work resonates deeply. The book of poems won the 2024 National Book Award for Poetry and delved into Palestinian life through the lens of the American language, revealing a legacy of obfuscation and erasure. It questions what happens when language packages ongoing disasters for consumption and disposal.

As a Jew supporting a two-state solution, I initially hesitated to read this collection of poems. However, I was pleasantly surprised by the lyrical beauty of the verses, which explore love not just as an emotion but as a transformative force and “a radical act.” Every poem that genuinely resonated with me. “Something About Living” is a book I highly recommend for its depth and insight!

Ms. Khalaf Tuffaha has an incredible literary repertoire; her previous work, “Water & Salt,” earned the esteemed 2018 Washington State Book Award, while “Kaan & Her Sisters” was a finalist for the Firecracker Award. In addition, “Something About Living” also received the 2022 Akron Prize for Poetry. I’m excited to explore her profound insights and lyrical mastery!

Adrian Matejka, the author of “Somebody Else Sold the World,” has written about “Something About Living,”

“It’s nearly impossible to write poetry that holds the human desire for joy and the insistent agitations of protest at the same time, but Lena Khalaf Tuffaha‘s gorgeous and wide-ranging new collection Something About Living does just that. Her poems interweave Palestine’s historic suffering, the challenges of living in this world full of violence and ill will, and the gentle delights we embrace to survive that violence. Khalaf Tuffaha’s elegant poems sing the fractured songs of Diaspora while remaining clear-eyed to the cause of the fracturing: the multinational hubris of colonialism and greed. This collection is her witness to our collective unraveling, vowel by vowel, syllable by syllable. “Let the plural be a return of us,” the speaker of “On the Thirtieth Friday We Consider Plurals” says and this plurality is our tenuous humanity and the deep need to hang on to kindness in our communities. In these poems Khalaf Tuffaha reminds us that love isn’t an idea; it is a radical act. Especially for those who, like this poet, travel through the world vigilantly, but steadfastly remain heart first.