Someone who taught ancient Greek and Roman culture at Cambridge for 50 years isn’t going to say there is no point, but Beard is quick to assure readers, in the breezy tone familiar from her television work, that she will make her case “without resorting to the tired clichés often used.” She doesn’t necessarily think the classics are “good for you” or impart “timeless truths.” What first sparked her interest was a 4,000-year-old piece of Egyptian bread at the British Museum that a kind curator took out of its case and held at eye level, so that 5-year-old Mary could see it up close; she still recalls the thrill of “an ordinary fragment of everyday life made by, and for, people who were unimaginably distant from me.” That sense of both nearness and distance is a through line in Beard’s short text, based on lectures she gave at the universities of Chicago and Edinburgh. Yes, classical literature still speaks to us of common, human emotions, but the world limned in, for example, the Iliad and the Aeneid is one in which slavery is a given, women have minimal rights, and violence is glorified, she reminds us; those pristine, marble statues praised by 19th-century classicists were originally painted in bright colors, and ancient Greeks and Romans weren’t monolithically white either. The ancients lived in a multicultural world and grappled with issues of free speech, good government, and many others still debated today. As is often the case in academic texts, there’s a lot of “on the one hand, on the other hand” here, but that’s Beard’s point. “Classics teaches you to discuss constructively questions to which there are no right answers,” she argues. “Part of the unashamed mission of humanities education is to celebrate and face up to complexity.”

Connor Castaway and Drummer Washington are two talented wrestlers and friends who are seniors at First Landing High School in Virginia Beach. They struggle with various challenges off the mat, as well as the stress of wrestling for a highly competitive coach, known to all as “Coach Wild,” who also happens to be Drummer’s father. Both boys live in one-parent homes: Connor’s father died the previous summer, and Drummer’s mother left the family home some time ago.As they train, the teens must also negotiate the social pressures of high school life. The toll of injuries on their bodies is significant, and they use opiates for pain management; they also have troubled relationships with girls, adding to their problems. One of the story’s most intriguing secondary players is the loathsome and privileged Jorby, who threatens Isla, Connor’s love interest.Cunningham effectively assembles a cast of flawed characters doing their best (or their worst) in an engaging story of people striving for different kinds of success. The adults in the boys’ lives are dealing with problems of their own, including addiction, career difficulties, loneliness, and infidelity. Assistant Coach Scarr is shown to be reeling from a demotion from his head coach position, while his wife is frustrated by his obsession with the sport and his inability to appreciate her own goals. “Coach Wild” is driven by a frenetic need to win at all costs, while Connor’s mother is lonely and just trying to cope. The work also stresses how the boys’ dads had both enjoyed success as young wrestlers, and how the weight of expectation rests heavily on their sons.

Why do we love sports? Well, there’s the existential aspect: We need meaning in life, and sports provides it, at least for some. Then, as scriptwriter Schur and sportswriter Posnanski put it, “Life is lonely, and sports provide community.” What’s more, sports, at least in the authors’ case, allows them to go tearing off to see what other nuts are up to. They find them everywhere. Schur imagines Posnanski asking a random stranger how it is that he became a Bears fan, receiving the reply, “I live in a prismatic hell from which there is no escape.” On a happier note, the two head to London for the World Darts Championship, its besotted fans dressed as if it were Halloween, “if Halloween had been designed from drunken adult Brits.” And if Halloween were about bananas instead of pumpkins, one might add. As for Canada: Well, as one Canadian succinctly puts it, “Every fucking day in Canada is National Fucking Hockey Day.” There’s plenty of goofiness, but there are also some serious reflections on various facets of sports. Darts may not seem like much of a sport as such, but the televised championship is viewed by millions around the world, as are chess matches. An especially thoughtful touch comes from Posnanski, who ruminates on the “radio rhythm” of different sports, with baseball the ideal pace, just as it’s the ideal game, while radio-broadcast football is “loud and chaotic and emotional and just a little bit nonsensical.” The writers diverge on some points—Schur hates violence, so naturally Posnanski condemns him to watch pro wrestling in revenge for having been dispatched to a pickleball tourney. But they agree firmly and rightly on one essential point: “we both despise the Dallas Cowboys.”

Stars shine outside a pale blue room; through a flower-framed door, a darting swallow leads the way to the titular path. A child (seen only from behind) at the foot of a sweeping set of steps is urged to set down a burdensome load as an unseen narrator assures youngsters that “you are not alone.” References to a higher power throughout (“the Spirit,” “God’s love”) reinforce that message. Far below, the child sees a labyrinth and enters it; though things grow dark, we’re reassured that “this is a labyrinth, not a maze. You cannot get lost.” Mindfulness techniques—an emphasis on deep breathing, active listening, taking in sensations all around—set a tranquil tone. On several pages, readers are asked to trace the path with their fingers, adding an engaging interactive element. The art is rife with hidden details. Animal and botanical forms are more or less realistic, though washed in luminous colors: rose, emerald, sapphire. The soothing text should lull many overstimulated readers into a sense of calm, though some might see the enticing imagery as an excuse to extend reading time and defer dozing off.

Raised by a brutal mother who forces him to carry out her cruelties alongside a constantly shifting cast of shadowy “uncles,” the Boy dreams of finding a home and a place to belong. After a particularly harrowing experience at his mother’s hands, he flees into the woods, where he encounters a mysterious orb that contains a traveling carnival. The Boy begins to feel at home among the ragtag carnival family, which includes the berobed leader, Terminus; a pair of conjoined sisters, Morningside and Eveningside; a menagerie of exotic animals including jaguarundi and Siberian tigers; and especially the magician, Sullivan, who takes the Boy under his wing as an apprentice. As the Boy becomes the Young Man, he learns at Sullivan’s side and, as his powers grow, he begins developing ambitions of his own—but then his ideas about how to make the show bigger and more powerful ignite a rivalry between him and his mentor. After a betrayal, what the Young Man believes will be his crowning achievement yields catastrophic results, and he’s cast out from his found family to wander alone. He drifts, haunted by his past, until he encounters a woman: Her, whose lightness promises to chase away his darkness. Just as he begins to feel he has finally escaped his violent past, he is forced to reckon with it once and for all. The writing is lush and sumptuous, and at its best, it conjures the Magician’s world with haunting vividness. Occasionally, however, the prose tips into an overwrought style that dulls rather than deepens the novel’s enchantment: “His body…lies in scant writhe,” for example.