The author was born in the Dominican Republic and raised in Section-8 housing in Brooklyn; he moved from poverty to the ivory towers of academia to become a professor of English at the University of Toledo. While his account is a deeply personal story of survival, brilliance, and grit, he also connects his autobiography to a larger history of immigrants and poor, marginalized Americans. “I was, to most of the people who met me and myself, a punk-ass Dominican immigrant,” he writes of his experiences in high school as a self-described “dique gangsta.” “Dique,” the Dominican Spanish word for “supposedly,” became a defining descriptor for Bonifacio’s life as he grappled with fundamental questions of identity. A major theme of the work is the author’s strained relationship with his father. “Papi’s love was rare,” he writes, describing being physically beaten as a child, and the author notes that the fear of his father’s violence “was [his] teacher for [Bonifacio’s] own budding machismo.” The author is brutally honest about himself, emphasizing the ways in which anger fueled his relationship with his family and defined his view of the world around him. Bonifacio’s memoir was originally published in 2017 while the author was finishing his doctorate degree—this updated and expanded edition covers major events in his life since that time (including the birth of his daughter and a budding academic career) while also commenting on the major escalation of “state repression” against immigrants under the second administration of President Donald Trump. The author of two poetry collections, whose work has appeared in The New York Times and other leading national publications, Bonifacio balances conversational, intimate prose (replete with curse words and Spanish phrases translated in footnotes) with a grounding in literary criticism and theory. The text includes bountiful quotes regarding racism, classism, and intersectionality from a range of authors, including bell hooks, James Baldwin, and Karl Marx.

Whenever Californian James Mun sleeps, he enters a place called the Flowering. There, he belongs to Crew Blue, along with E, Honey, and Lux, whose job is to kill monstrous “moulded” citizens of the realm. Their latest mission involves the Red Calf, a legendary beast that was defeated and imprisoned in a purple orb, but whom the crew has reason to believe is returning to consume everything in the Flowering. If that happens, the realm will gradually disappear, along with the “dimension of human dreams” and even sleep itself; without slumber, of course, humans will die back in Reality. The Third, who’s one of 12 sightless, formidable Shamans, wants the beast’s power, and specifically its golden eye, to restore each of Shamans’ eyesight. However, the Shamans aren’t trustworthy, with the exception of Snow (aka Twelve) who joins Crew Blue and its allies. James and the rest can materialize weapons for battle out of thin air, but defeating the Red Calf will require unwavering teamwork, as well. This sophomore installment, following Eye in the Blue Box (2025), moves at a slow and deliberate pace, notwithstanding a handful of impeccable action sequences. Kim uses the opportunity to dive deeply into characterization. E, for example, has a thorny history with Kit, and is understandably wary of relying on him as a potential ally. Readers also get more than a glimpse of characters’ lives in Reality, where they go by different names. There’s plenty of tension as well, as getting to the Red Calf necessitates encounters with vicious individuals and, in one Crew member’s case, entering a dangerous tournament. Other highlights include an endearing reunion between Bloom (a giant blue wolf and an original Crew Blue member) and his colorful wolf pack, along with well-earned, heartfelt moments as the characters’ bonds strengthen further.

Sixteen-year-old artist Rick Seaton works on his metalsmithing at his New Jersey home. Using a lamp he bought at an auction (“It’s antique, a piece of history, and an investment!”), Rick inadvertently launches a piece of metal into the sky. He relays this discovery to his summer-camp friend Martin Crane in Idaho while Martin’s former schoolmate Marge Spencer, an autistic teen with a genius-level IQ, is visiting. Marge has the brains to turn Rick’s “happy accident” into a functional space drive that can propel a spacecraft, which Martin can build and his wealthy parents can fund. But doing this without federal involvement is illegal, which is where Dotty Vaneman comes in. She’s a skilled, well-known violinist whose life Rick recently saved and who can “launder” the necessary millions via her debut world tour. But even after the teens successfully launch the Alouette into outer space, they’re targets of a clandestine American group that essentially polices technological advancements. This interference leads to a kidnapping and an attempt to take them out as they orbit another planet in the Milky Way. Things get even more dangerous when they need to refuel for the return home. They’ll have to land the Alouette on an unknown, Earth-like planet, where they mingle with friendly inhabitants but ultimately end up in a whole new set of precarious circumstances. With any luck, Martin and the others will survive long enough to recover the fuel their ship needs and make it back to their home world.

Fine’s engrossing series-opener is a modern take on E.E. Smith and Lee Hawkins Garby’s 1928 novel The Skylark of Space. Much like the source text, romance abounds among the lead characters. Marge, for one, is enamored with Martin, who stands up for her at school but has been exploring his gay sexuality. Similarly, Rick and Dotty are paired off almost immediately, as the first time he sees her, she’s in peril. Despite an abundance of characters on the other planet, the best among the supporting cast are earthlings—Dr. Marc DuQuesne, who takes in and mentors foster kid Marge but harbors a dark secret, and Shiro Higa, who proves a great help with the spaceship’s construction. Martin’s father and Shiro are Vietnam “war buddies.” The author structures this narrative to great effect, skillfully introducing the main characters before their lives interact organically and the Alouette slowly comes together. There’s also an intriguing Judaism theme running throughout. For starters, both Rick and Dotty are Jewish but hail from noticeably different backgrounds; Dotty’s parents are loving, and Rick’s are emotionally abusive. At the same time, Rick’s reason for space exploration ties to his religion, as he’s certain the teens can “settle the Solar System” and prevent another Holocaust. Nevertheless, while the science and tech are sound, the bulk of the story is explicitly relayed through dialogue. The teens, in particular, often say exactly what’s in their heads, forgoing any nuance in terms of character development. Meanwhile, the ending offers both a resolution and dangling plot threads for the sequel to pick up.

After her four-year marriage ended, the author found herself nearing the end of her 30s and  confronting an uncertain future. Living in New York City and working as a ghostwriter—a job she had come to despise—she made the practical but emotionally fraught decision to freeze her eggs (“I can’t stop thinking that I’m behind schedule”). Soon after, she quit her job and moved to the small New England town of Hanover, New Hampshire, which she knew only because it was where she adopted Ronan, her Glen of Imaal terrier. Trading her mouse-infested environs for bohemian chic, Vereckey moved in with Susan and Jake, the couple who bred the terriers. Residing in the apartment on the bottom floor of the main house, Vereckey began the slow, uncertain work of rebuilding her life. Returning to her journalistic roots, the author took on freelance work for a local newspaper and settled into the rhythms of her new household, enjoying evening Jeopardy! sessions with Susan and Jake over cocktails, the companionship of their five dogs, and the quiet intimacy of shared space. While there’s plenty here to make readers laugh, the narrative doesn’t shy from difficult moments, including the heartbreak of a quality-of-life decision for one of the dogs and Susan’s mother’s death; Vereckey conveys this material with genuine emotion and restraint. The author structures her story in short, essay-like chapters that capture the texture of daily life rather than follow a strictly linear narrative. Some vignettes don’t connect directly with the larger arc, but Vereckey’s engaging voice and warm observations keep the pages turning. While readers hoping for a dramatic transformation or clear forward momentum may find the pacing leisurely, the narrative effectively reflects real life. The author isn’t offering a tidy reinvention story; she’s documenting the messy, slow process of finding one’s footing after loss. What results is less a saga of self-discovery than an honest portrait of someone trying to navigate through the unknown and figure out what home means when everything familiar has fallen away.

Bob Dylan has nothing on Leonard Cohen (1934-2016) when it comes to cryptic musical personas. He was a successful singer-songwriter but came to it late, almost casually, after establishing himself as a poet and novelist in his native Canada. He wrote songs steeped in religious imagery—“Hallelujah” most famously—but kept his own faith vague. Though he was embraced by the counterculture, he had a nihilistic streak and was, as one writer here notes, “a long-standing member of the National Rifle Association.” The essays Shumway collects don’t pretend to make a coherent portrait—except, perhaps, as a man who tried to wriggle out of every attempt to categorize him. A trio of essays discuss his uneasy relationship with ’60s folkies like Dylan, ’70s singer-songwriters, and ’80s rock acts. (Eric Weisbard delivers a particularly thoughtful piece on Cohen’s ’90s revival, stoked by his music’s appearances in films like Pump Up the Volume.) Cohen songs are less sung than incanted, which leads many to dismiss them as simple; Alan Light’s appreciation of Cohen’s gift for melody offers an elegant, well-researched counterpoint. Numerous pieces touch on his uneasy relationship with the spotlight; his touring in his later years was less about ego than a desperate need for cash after a manager embezzled his funds. Some of the pieces have a strong whiff of academia about them, including explorations of his documentary appearances, “Hallelujah” covers, and his songs’ relationship to Christian and Jewish musical traditions. But even at its wonkiest, the book feels celebratory toward Cohen, suggesting that his music and life offer rich material for cultural scholars. The closing essay, an overview of Cohen’s archives, offers a glimpse into the mass of notebooks, scraps of lyrics, and ephemera that still await the eager Cohen researcher.