The author is a neurologist and children’s rights attorney who understands the importance of identifying the factors that affect children struggling to thrive in our modern world. She tackles systemic issues head-on and identifies the five main systems that put children at risk. “Big Food” prioritizes shelf-stability and immediate appeal over health. “Big Pharma” has turned tools for short-term stabilization into “instruments of long-term management.” “Big Medicine” often undermines parents’ own instincts. “Big Government” shoves additives into school lunches, and “Big Media” prizes profits over what is best for the audience. The result of these influences, per Idoko, is a generation of children at risk of becoming disconnected from the innate biological systems intended to regulate and promote their development; their bodies work to compensate for as long as they can, then collapse begins. Such collapse takes the forms of language and social regression, sleep changes, disruptive behavior, withdrawal, and an ever-increasing dependence on the very systems that are causing harm. Many of the interventions the author proposes involve dietary shifts and careful record-keeping as a means to help parents advocate for themselves, even as the systems in place dismiss their concerns (Idoko argues that the path toward a solution relies on parents trusting their instincts). The author’s text is direct and free of jargon as she describes the experiences of parents and offers immediately actionable steps. Idoko effectively articulates the challenge of bridging the gap between parents’ experiences and the scientific establishment: “What can’t be monetized gets underfunded. What’s underfunded looks unproven. What looks unproven gets ignored.” While the nuances of the author’s argument occasionally risk getting lost amid a sea of memorable one-liners (“when rhythm breaks, biology breaks”; “compliance isn’t development”), ultimately, her message is clear: In an age of “Big” systems, parents must trust both the science and themselves.

Jenkins, in the guise of his complicated protagonist Denzel Davis, tells readers that his experience growing up in 1990s Philadelphia was one of “dysfunction, inserting the burdens and curses of my ancestors.” Denzel is constantly beset by circumstances beyond his control; as the author explains, “My grandmother murdered my great-grandmother; my father drowned himself in alcohol; my other grandmother was an uneducated, helpless invalid rooted in rigid traditions.” It’s a brutally frank depiction, powerfully conveying the unholy legacy of institutionalized racism in the United States and its impact on the oppressed. Denzel is not some innocent figure of exemplary nature callously tossed into the gnashing jaws of outrageous fortune to fend for himself—he is actually an extremely flawed character whom many may well argue embraces criminality all too easily, and without much remorse. He views continuing to engage in petty schemes to defraud people (with bogus checks and credit card scams) as simply a necessary course of action given his precarious situation and financial straits. In Jenkins’ stark and briskly paced narrative, readers come to understand that Denzel, for all his brashness and toughness, suffers from profound mental health issues. The work functions as a deft commentary on the way American society dismissively judges those it actively seeks to dehumanize. “Brown evokes images of earth and soil, drawing parallels to poverty and neglect,” the author writes. “It is a color that often goes unnoticed, as dull and repetitive as a song heard too many times. Yet, within this hue lies an unrecognized resilience and strength.” Denzel may not be a saint as he valiantly strives to earn a degree and make it as an artist, but, in the end, his fitful journey registers as heroic.

The author defines collapse as the current era of societal decline: “For thousands of years, various entities have been at play—narratives, groups, and forces—herding humanity towards this moment of reckoning.” This decline, he says, encompasses the world economy, mental health issues, addiction, climate change, and geopolitics, among other topics. Although the author suggests that “unavoidable catastrophe is assured,” we still have productive ways to respond to the “polycrisis,” he asserts. Part 1 situates readers in the current global troubles, aiming to help them recognize that they have cause for deep concern for the planet’s well-being. Part 2 delves deeply into future crises, including compelling scientific data on climate change. Most interestingly, as the author points, “Fossil fuel use hasn’t decreased despite an increase in renewable energy production.” The author uses the term hopium, which he frames as blind faith in technology to solve the world’s problems. Part 3 focuses on potential responses to the polycrisis, relying on wisdom from Native peoples and mutual aid. The most compelling aspect of this book is a chapter debunking common misconceptions about possible solutions: For example, in response to the notion that merely spending more on food production is an easy fix, Quiñonez counters, “Food production is not merely about money. It is impacted by geopolitics, supply chain disruptions, droughts, floods, storms, heat waves, frosts, wars, pests, energy availability, and fertilizer shortages, among other factors.” Still, the book as a whole remains overly abstract, despite its ambition. Parts 1 and 3 lack concrete data and anecdotes to properly situate readers in the author’s claims of a global crisis. Skeptics may also find it difficult to embrace the author’s point of view, as he’s not an expert on the issues at hand, although he notes that “I’ve lived in a specific context with a particular nature and nurture, allowing me to be receptive to these issues while maintaining a relatively clear outlook.”

Prize-winning scholar Nussbaum argues that opera engages in political thought, conveying moral and philosophical ideas about rights and freedoms, gender, rank, and class. Beyond the libretti, these ideas are expressed in the music itself and in the act of singing. Nussbaum devotes half the book to Mozart, whom she sees as “the deepest philosopher of the Enlightenment,” cognizant of other major thinkers, such as Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Immanuel Kant, and Johann Gottfried von Herder. Mozart was a Freemason, a member of a “quasi-religion, a fraternity based upon ethical commitments,” especially to fostering human dignity. As a Freemason, he was committed to the ideals of freedom, equality, mercy, and fraternal love, as well as to the rejection of religious superstition, class privilege, honor, and revenge. These ideals inform Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro, The Magic Flute, Idomeneo, Don Giovanni, Così fan tutte, and the lesser-known La clemenza di Tito, operas in which characters commit bad acts motivated by a desire for revenge, but in which mercy and reason prevail. Mozart, Nussbaum asserts, conceived of his operas as political, contributing to the reshaping of human attitudes needed to forge a new public culture. The second half of the book considers operas that further Mozartean themes, including Beethoven’s only opera, Fidelio, “opera’s greatest musical depiction” of hope; Heggie’s Dead Man Walking; Verdi’s Don Carlos, infused with its creator’s “zeal for liberty”; Benjamin Britten’s Peter Grimes and his Albert Herring, dealing with the plight of the outcast; Janacek’s Jenufa; John Adams’ Nixon in China; and Verdi’s Falstaff. These works capture the spirit of optimism and joy that pervades what the author calls “a republicanism of the heart.” In contrast, Nussbaum sees Wagner as the composer whose despair, xenophobic paranoia, and fantasies of cultural purity place him in opposition to Mozartean ideals.

Sixty-five-year-old Nancy Norman, who recently ended a career as a home nurse, loves James Bond movies and spy novels, her cat (Dr. GoldenPaw), and the act of bedazzling nearly every surface of her Minneapolis home. She’s a woman with big dreams but little means to make them a reality, beyond a casual flirtation with a handsome stranger on a dating app for senior citizens, and she lacks a clear sense of purpose. So when she’s offered an overpaid position as a substitute night nurse for technology mogul and environmental activist Gnut Berdqvist, she takes it. After intruders break into Gnut’s mansion, however, Nancy uncovers a labyrinth of corporate intrigue, fraud, and violence—and on top of everything, her cat goes missing. Dahlman’s novel makes a solid effort to pay homage to classic espionage thrillers, and the fact that the protagonist is a senior citizen is relatively uncommon in the genre and sets the stage for a truly engaging story. However, various attempts at humor throughout the book often come off as silly. Characters generally feel underdeveloped and frequently use catchphrase-laden language, such as a retired football star turned hacker who often uses football metaphors: “Hell yeah. Touchdown. Accessed the power grid.” Others fall into stereotypical patterns: The villains are oafish, Gnut is a self-absorbed pseudo-environmentalist, and Sinclair, who becomes Nancy’s love interest, is a narcissistic Englishman who wears a tuxedo to a jewel heist. The plot frequently drags through unimportant details, particularly toward the end, as a battle or a tense scene takes place in nearly every room in Gnut’s expansive mansion. Finally, frequent references to Target department stores and its brands make the book feel like an advertisement at times, rather than an intriguing spy tale.