Journalist and podcaster Princiotti isn’t ashamed of her pop-music obsession, and thinks you shouldn’t be, either. She traces her love of the genre back to 2003, when she was 9, and “Hilary Duff was the single most important person in the world to me outside my immediate family.” The subject of Princiotti’s book is the female pop stars of the early 21st century, who, she says, “expanded our understanding of what a pop star could be and forced the industry around them to take them seriously.” First among equals in this cohort is Britney Spears, who introduced young fans to “independence, agency, and self-­expression” and who was the subject of misogynistic sneers from the media and “girl-on-­girl crime and slut-­shaming” by some of her peers. Princiotti considers the rise and fall of other pop singers, including Avril Lavigne, who claimed to have “created punk for this day and age,” and Ashlee Simpson, whose career was derailed by a disastrous Saturday Night Live performance. She also writes about the singers who maintained their star power, including Beyoncé, whose “Crazy in Love” launched her solo career, and, of course, Taylor Swift, who along with her fans and the internet “built modern fandom to be massive, persistent, and motivated.” Princiotti’s argument is that these stars never got the respect they deserved for “confronting old assumptions about genre, challenging the perception of celebrity and utilizing new technologies and the burgeoning internet to its fullest,” and she argues it very well, drawing on cultural history and journalism to prove that the singers were sui generis and not just retreads of earlier entertainers. As she convincingly asserts, the musical era was richer and deeper than some give it credit for.

Unlike most kids’ nonfiction about cetaceans, this book focuses on just one meaningful episode, an extraordinary encounter between a whale pod and humans. In 2014, freedivers Fred Buyle and Kurt Amsler floated among sperm whales in the Azores and, noticing that a calf had been born mere minutes earlier, photographed and filmed the animals. This splendid work gives readers a front-row seat to that event. Cusolito draws vivid parallels between the whales and the human (just one diver is depicted in this tale): Both diver and calf must kick their way to the surface to breathe, but the newborn cannot yet swim, and “helper females nudge baby upward while mother rests below.” As the whales call to one another, the diver wonders what they’re saying; in a climactic moment, the mother presents her calf to the diver, who “is one with the whales” for a brief time. They separate, and “he rides home in silence, forever changed.” His silence is understandable—who could find words to describe such an experience? Fortunately, Cusolito has. Her concise yet eloquent text immerses young people in the watery setting, letting them feel the whales’ clicks as they “tingle” and “vibrate” and emphasizing the strength of these animals’ social bonds. Lanan’s fluid, pristine artwork echoes the underwater photography, with clear, blue-washed images that suggest both immense grandeur and the shadowy sublime. The diver is light-skinned.

Journalist and author Fieseler’s vital account shines a light on the Florida Legislative Investigation Committee—“a forgotten cabal of gerrymandered white legislators that went after Black and queer citizens in the mid-twentieth century at the height of anti-Communist hysteria.” This pursuit led to the surveillance and persecution of Black NAACP activists and then to the firings and expulsions of hundreds of homosexual professors and students in schools and colleges across Florida—a “purge,” in the words of state lawmakers. Some of these injustices were remedied only when they reached the Florida and U.S. Supreme Courts. Fieseler follows the political careers of FLIC chairman Charley Johns, a staunch segregationist, and chief investigator Remus Strickland, whose “dogged pursuit of alleged homosexuals verged on megalomania.” The author humanizes this history with portraits of some of its victims, including University of Florida undergraduate Art Copleston, who was pulled from class and interrogated, and tenured music professor John Faircloth Park, entrapped in a courthouse men’s room. Modeled on the Red Scare’s House Committee on Un-American Activities, FLIC, also known as the Johns Committee after its chairman, quickly became “an investigation in search of something new to investigate.” Fieseler describes how he gained access to the records of FLIC’s closed meetings, scandalous and previously unavailable to the public. A task force empowered to investigate “subversive crime” soon became corrupt itself. Most saliently, the author also draws parallels to later Floridians who would continue to wage attacks on Blacks and gays: Anita Bryant (and her Save Our Children campaign) and current Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis (backer of the Don’t Say Gay bill and the Stop WOKE Act). The persecution of “the other” has not set with the Florida sun.

The long-running revival of Powell kicked off in 1987, when Gore Vidal championed her work in the New York Review of Books. Since then, there’s been a biography by Tim Page, two volumes of her fiction in the Library of America, and publication of her Diaries and Selected Letters. Yet, as critic Ilana Masad laments, “far more people have heard of Powell’s contemporary wit Dorothy Parker.” Masad contributes the introduction to this reissue of the author’s 1928 novel, her second (although she renounced the first). Like Dance Night (1930) and Come Back to Sorrento (1932), it’s set in Ohio; Powell was born and raised there before moving to New York City, the setting for her best-known work. Sisters Linda and Dorrie Shirley live with their grandmother, called Aunt Jule, in a boardinghouse on the wrong side of the tracks in fictional Birchfield. Beautiful blond Linda, with her “resentful blue eyes,” yearns for respectability and looks down on Jule’s lodgers—“riffraff from the trains,” “fast women and gambling men”—while pining for Courtenay Stall, scion of a good Birchfield family. Younger Dorrie, an aspiring poet, romanticizes their world and the people in it, especially old man Wickley, forever reading aloud from his dust-covered books, “that great voice hurling magnificent words at the walls” of his attic room. There’s not much plot to speak of—will Courtenay ever take notice of Linda?—but the lodging house provides a parade of unsentimental character sketches, including a scandalously flirtatious farm girl married to a much older man, a New York transplant surprised she can’t get lobster salad and chocolate éclairs in Birchfield, and a wheelchair-bound gossip who maliciously follows all the comings and goings.

Scene: a New Year’s Eve party in Stockholm, where Ina Mikkola meets a young man named Hector. Ina has two sisters there, Anastasia and Evelyn, but she doesn’t want to find them, lest Hector “fall in love with Anastasia, the fun sister, the crazy sister…[and then] he would catch sight of Evelyn and then he would quickly let go of Anastasia’s hand and become transfixed by Evelyn’s eyes.” And so it goes over the 650 pages of Swedish novelist Khemiri’s latest, an ambitious epic that spans half a century and crosses oceans to find—well, never exactly happiness, since the sisters believe they’re doomed by a curse never to find it. An interlocutor throughout is a young man named Jonas, who, like the Mikkola sisters, is half Swedish and half Tunisian: He reveals himself as a purveyor of rumors about them (“their mom worked late and on weekends and wore a lot of perfume and black leather boots and always had her designer handbag full of cash”), befitting of the later role that Jonas plays—not just an observer, but in time a perhaps unreliable narrator within the narration, organized, as Jonas says, just as Khemiri’s is, in seven parts, “and each part covers a shorter and shorter period of time, from a year down to a minute.” It’s a daring concept, but Khemiri pulls it off capably, with that last minute containing an especially moving episode. The longer pieces have their longueurs, with Anastasia, drug-addled and lost, taking much of the story’s oxygen, but each part offers a tantalizing bit of a secret that the reader must pursue to the end in order to understand just how Jonas’ story intertwines with the Mikkolas’, even as their lives have over decades.