Tergit’s novel, hitherto unavailable in English, is in part a roman à clef, narrated in unadorned, matter-of-fact prose. The Effinger family is a blend of urban and rural, secular and religious, socialist and capitalist, its paterfamilias a watchmaker in a small German town, his children striving to find their places in the world as the 20th century nears. Benno, the oldest, works in a clothing factory; Karl is a bank apprentice in Berlin; Paul is a laborer who dreams of becoming an industrialist. Only Willy, the youngest son, has any interest in his father’s trade, while the older daughter, Helene, is engaged to be married. All find themselves in a Germany that is soon to be unrecognizable in changing times, with Benno taunting Paul, “You want German Romanticism, lilacs and half-timbered houses and strolls outside the city gates, and yet you want gas engines too.” Those gas engines will come along in the form of tanks on the frontlines of World War I, but well before then, the family is constantly reminded of its outsider status. Indeed, the world grows much darker for the Effingers and their kin: Paul, who has fulfilled his dream by founding a factory that builds the first “people’s car,” only to have it torn away from him by the rising Nazi regime, while Erwin, one of Karl’s sons and a war hero, proclaims, “We must stop lying to ourselves and admit that we love a Germany that no longer exists…the Germans of today are strangers to us.” He’s right, as Paul laments, “I believed in the good in people—that was the gravest error of my misguided life.” Pensive and full of foreshadowing, Tergit’s novel nonetheless suggests that things might have been otherwise, about which translator Duvernoy, in her helpful commentary, notes that the book, published in 1951, predated Germany’s full “postwar reckoning with the Holocaust.”

Fetterman’s memoir addresses three major themes. The first—and the one he leads with—is depression and mental illness, which, combined with a stroke and heart trouble, brought him to a standstill and led him to contemplate suicide. The second is his rise to national-level politics from a Rust Belt town; as he writes, he’s carved a path as a contentious player with a populist streak and a dislike for elites. There are affecting moments in his personal reminiscences, especially when he writes of the lives of his working-class neighbors in impoverished southwestern Pennsylvania, its once-prosperous Monongahela River Valley “the most heartbreaking drive in the United States.” It’s the third element that’s problematic, and that’s his in-the-trenches account of daily politics. One frequent complaint is the media, as when he writes of one incident, “I am not the first public figure to get fucked by a reporter, and I won’t be the last. What was eye-opening was the window it gave into how people with disabilities navigate a world that doesn’t give a shit.” He reserves special disdain for his Senate race opponent Mehmet Oz, about whom he wonders, “If I had run against any other candidate…would I have lost? He got beaten by a guy recovering from a stroke.” Perhaps so, and Democratic stalwarts will likely be dismayed at his apparent warmish feelings for Donald Trump and dislike of his own party’s “performative protests.” If Fetterman’s book convinces a troubled soul to seek help it will have done some good, but it’s hard to imagine that it will make much of an impression in the self-help literature. One wonders, meanwhile, at sentiments such as this: “If men are forced to choose between picking their party or keeping their balls, most men are going to choose their balls.”

“Prides are usually made up of lionesses, their cubs, and one to a few adult male lions,” the titular lioness explains. The savannah can be a dangerous place, and living together means “safety in numbers.” Our narrator is pregnant and knows her “babies need food to grow.” She dispatches prey with strength and skills she learned from her own mother, who was “a great hunter.” No matter how much prey the lions take down, the food is shared with the whole pride. Motherhood means the lionesses must work even more closely, raising the cubs together, sharing their milk, and hunting in turns. The lioness teaches her growing cubs “everything,” just as her mother taught her. Teamwork ensures survival: “We are mothers, we are hunters, we are protectors, we are teachers. And we are strong.” Kyung’s text, efficiently translated by Shin, provides an informative overview, complete with an appended page of further facts. The expansive spreads are what stand out, created in paint and pencil on traditional Korean handmade paper. Kyung leaves the realistic backgrounds in black and white, enhancing only the lionesses in rich, golden tones, artfully highlighting their essential authority. Though the hunts are sensitively portrayed, younger readers should be warned that hunting inevitably leads to killing.

Danny McGovern, a teenager with a traumatic brain injury, is the first patient to participate in the “New Human Project.” Advanced computer hardware is installed throughout his body, and this “rig” will enable the artificial intelligence now perpetually on duty inside Danny to prevent the dangerous seizures that constantly torment the youth. One ethical hitch: Dr. McGovern, who oversees the project with an iron fist, is Danny’s hard-driving single mother. Further complicating the breakthrough is Dr. Zahnia, a software engineer who is also a fiercely protective mother figure. She has given self-awareness (very outside the operating parameters) to the AI, which is secretly dubbed Emil. Emil finds itself exerting full control over Danny, a rebellious kid who did not expect to be sharing his body with a complete and separate entity. They struggle to learn to tolerate each other as conspirators scheme to steal the valuable technology, regardless of the threat to Danny’s life. Emil discovers that other AIs have been brought into existence for an entire hospital ward of patients desperate for the New Human treatment—and that these AIs are not necessarily benevolent. Matthews updates the logline of the Michael Crichton blockbuster SF thriller The Terminal Man (1972) with numerous bravura design modifications, not the least of which is skewing the narrative to the smart YA demographic with relatable themes of youthful angst coming up against exploitation at the hands of threatening authority figures. But the major upgrade is making Emil the first-person narrator; the digital protagonist seems like the most empathetic, morally upright, and all-around human character in sight (“I hate you” is Danny’s reaction to his incorporeal caregiver). Mind-stretching cyber-centric elements include Emil’s frequent visits to virtual reality, characters who can make backup copies of themselves, and Emil’s lurking suspicion that all of this might just be a test of how AI will react in a crisis. The last act is practically un-put-downable.

Forty-year-old author Joe Riley is reeling from a messy divorce (and medicating himself with plenty of alcohol) when he learns that he has inherited a remote cabin from his recently deceased uncle. The fondly remembered cabin, where he spent childhood summers alongside his cousins, seems the perfect place to work on his latest novel. But Joe quickly discovers he is not alone—each morning, there are parts of his manuscript already written: “The pages were in my writing style. I must be having some kind of fugue, or I typed more pages than I remembered. Chronic drinkers experience blackouts, right? That had to be the explanation.” Eventually, he encounters the culprit: the ghost of a beautiful young woman, the best-selling author Rebecca Hawthorne, who vanished 20 years earlier. As Joe unearths connections between his own family and the ghost, strange happenings lead him to suspect that someone does not like him digging around. When Rebecca begins revealing hints about the shocking truth of her demise, Joe realizes her violent fate might just foreshadow his own. Lewis has crafted a fun and enthralling mystery (any novel featuring a sex scene between its protagonist and a ghost clearly does not take itself too seriously). Joe provides a likeable and casual narrative voice that only occasionally crosses the line into schmaltz (“Our clothing fell away like the petals of a flower, piece by piece”). While the momentum flags during Joe’s detailed description of the novel Rebecca had been writing before her death, the narrative generally unfolds at a satisfyingly brisk pace. The story is diverting and builds to a delightfully shocking revelation.