In a condensation aimed at the general reader of a much longer and more technical report on the economic impact of biodiversity, British economist Dasgupta makes the case that economists in general have been ignoring what he calls “natural capital” in favor of the more historically accepted measures of produced capital and human capital. By “natural capital,” Dasgupta means “ecosystems and their constituents,” and he points out that investment in natural capital is very different from what we usually mean by investment: It often means allowing ecosystems to rest and regenerate; and not allowing this to take place necessarily results in an ongoing degradation of natural capital. Over the course of the book, the author concisely considers the economic impact of species extinction, the difficulty of dealing with exploitation of the ocean, and the importance of acting locally. While those who aren’t fluent in the language and mathematics of economics may find some of the volume hard going, with its graphs and formulas and its prose dry, the author does come down to earth with concrete examples, such as considering the impact of mangrove forests or measuring the effects of a shrimp farming operation. Though Dasgupta does present a few tentative solutions to the problem of the increasing loss and degradation of natural capital—lowering future global human population and per capita GDP, reducing the production of goods, and raising the rate of regeneration of the biosphere—his primary emphasis is on laying out a pressing problem in terms that can’t be brushed off, noting bluntly and undramatically that “we need 1.7 Earths to meet humanity’s current demand on a sustainable basis.”

Independent scholar Sankovitch recounts the unlikely history of Jemima Wilkinson (1753-1819), a Rhode Island woman who claimed to have died and been reborn as a genderless messenger from God: Universal Friend. Raised in a Quaker home, Jemima became swept up in the religious revival movement of the 1770s and the excitement of colonial patriotism. Then, in 1776, she suddenly fell deathly ill, only to awaken one morning dramatically transformed. She had been visited by angels, she said, and now her body was a vessel anointed to “carry God’s message of universal redemption” to lost souls. Rejecting identification as a male or female and taking a new name, Universal Friend became a nonbinary minister, intent on creating “a practical, functioning utopia,” where equality, opportunity, and individual enrichment would be the guiding values. Into a world of danger and dissent, Friend went forth, wearing a long, dark robe over a silk skirt, with a white or purple cravat around the neck to preach a gospel of salvation. The world was dying, Friend announced, and each person must seek redemption and work for peace; instead of taking up arms, “piety and faith should lead to reconciliation.” Friend’s message resonated with merchants and tradesmen, teachers and farmers, some offering Friend lodging and financial support. Wherever Friend made a home, it was turned into a community where chores were shared and each individual was respected. Friend’s ministry extended to Pennsylvania, New England, and finally, the nation’s western frontier in New York state, where the Society of Universal Friends worked to establish a viable community. Sankovitch reveals the trials and challenges that Friend strived to overcome, including scandals, betrayals, fraud, and greed—and the perseverance that led to the success, though brief, of their Jerusalem.

He’s indebted to the Devil, and must do him 666 favors before he can earn his soul back. For his last favor, all Callum is expected to do is escort an unsuspecting human named Auggie from London to New York. Callum embarks on his journey accompanied by his irate cat, Narcissa, and Therese, a young girl from the village whom he accidentally turned into a frog. Callum and his small party face attacks along the way—but Callum also makes friends for the first time in his life. And Auggie is different; Callum falls deeper in love with him as the slow-burn story progresses. Unfortunately, the light worldbuilding and characters’ simplicity make this witchy tale lukewarm at best. Passive language makes the plot lack urgency and the story feel overly long in the lead-up to an anticlimactic, though happy, ending. Golems appear—Callum uses one as his potion shop clerk, and the Ember King has henchmen who are golems—but there’s no mention of the Jewish folklore surrounding the myth of the golem, and the fabled creatures are used as little more than plot devices. Main characters read white.

Seventeen-year-old Waldo, the narrator of McCurdy’s fiction debut, lives in Anchorage, Alaska, with her mother, though she’s long been the parent in their relationship. She heats her own frozen meals and pays the bills on time while her mom chases man after man and makes well-meaning promises she never keeps. Waldo blows her Victoria’s Secret wages on online shopping sprees and binges on junk food, inevitably crashing after the fleeting highs of her indulgences. Mr. Korgy, her creative writing teacher, has “thinning hair and nose pores”; he’s 40 years old and married with a child. Nevertheless—or possibly as a result?—Waldo’s attraction to him is “instant. So sudden it’s alarming. So palpable it’s confusing.” Mr. Korgy professes to want to keep their friendship aboveboard, but after a sexual encounter at the school’s winter formal that she initiates, an affair begins. Will this reckless pursuit be the one that actually satisfies Waldo, and is she as mature as she thinks she is? Waldo is a keen observer of people and provides sharp commentary on the punishing work of female beauty. Readers of McCurdy’s bestselling memoir, I’m Glad My Mom Died (2022), will surely be curious about the tumultuous mother-daughter relationship, and it is one of the novel’s highlights, full of realistic pity and anger and need. (“I want to scream at her. I want her to hug me.”) Unfortunately, the prose is often unwieldy and sometimes downright cringeworthy: When Waldo tells Mr. Korgy she loves him, “The words hang in the air in that constipated way they do when you know that you shouldn’t have said them.” Waldo frequently lists emotions and adjectives in triplicate, and events that could be significant aren’t sufficiently explored or given enough space to breathe before the novel races on to the next thing.

At Juniper’s school in the city, bullies—seen in the shadows but apparently white—taunt the young girl. On a day devoted to celebrating students’ heritage, they tell her she doesn’t know where she comes from. Juniper’s mojo bag, tucked in her pocket, doesn’t keep the bullies at bay. But soon enough, she packs up empty mason jars and travels to Grandma’s house down South. During “rootwork summer,” Grandma teaches Juniper about the wisdom their ancestors brought from Africa, when “white folks stole us and caged us on boats set for America.” Grandma explains that these newly arrived Africans sought wisdom from their own ancestors, “[weaving] the magick of home deep into their bones” as they harvested tree sap and gathered mushrooms. As Juniper learns about these practices—known as hoodoo—and the powers of different plants, she adds bits of items to her mojo bag and fills her jars with herbs. And when she returns home in August, she feels ready to face the bullies, armed with the knowledge of who she is. McBride’s shimmering prose (Grandma’s home is “like a ship sailing in a sea of herbs”) immerses readers in Juniper’s experience, while Encarnación’s illustrations make powerful use of light and shadow to redefine what glows. Their perspective on the Black diaspora brings something truly new to children’s literature.