Theirs was an unlikely union. Alfred Hitchcock “was a Catholic from London who loathed conflict,” whereas composer Bernard Herrmann “was a volatile Jew from New York’s East Side,” a man who was known to shout at musicians, “Hey you! Play what’s written,” yet whose “mastery at conveying character psychology in music found its ideal vessel in film scores.” In this appreciative biography, music scholar Smith chronicles their decade-long professional partnership, from The Trouble With Harry (1955) to Marnie (1964). The goal of this book, Smith writes, is to show “Hitchcock’s filmmaking process from beginning to end” and “eavesdrop on discussions between director and composer, as they discuss a film’s flaws that music may help.” Their work together began when Hitchcock, needing a composer who could match Harry’s “offbeat blend of macabre humor, lyrical imagery, and romance,” was introduced to Herrmann, the temperamental, twice-divorced Juilliard grad who learned “how to depict psychology in music” from Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique. The results were legendary, with Herrmann’s music deftly accentuating the tension in Hitchcock’s films, from his use of atonality and “low-string harmonics” to match the off-kilter sensations of Vertigo, to the Fandango dance theme he invented for North by Northwest, to the discordant, all-strings score of Psycho. Smith borrows liberally from previous books, yet those unfamiliar with Hitchcock and Herrmann will learn much, such as that Hitchcock originally wanted no music over Psycho’s famous shower scene. He changed his mind, and Herrmann created perhaps the most famous music in cinema history, “three E-flat notes, in the first violins’ highest register” that are then “joined by shrieking second violins, playing E-natural,” with the notes “played with hard downbow strikes and leaping glissandos,” a simple solution that proved terrifyingly effective.

Picking up where his two previous books on secession left off, Syracuse University political scientist Griffiths opens with this scenario: Donald Trump Jr. declares himself the winner of the 2032 election, while Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez does the same, and in the civil strife that ensues in the “Year of Two Presidents,” the republic shatters. But how to sort out the division of the country into Redland and Blueland, especially after Texas, once Trump Jr. sites his capital in Florida and not Houston, itself secedes from Redland, prompting Gavin Newsom to carve off the new republic of Grand California? That scenario may be far-fetched—but, Griffiths notes, Marjorie Taylor Greene has been loudly calling for a “national divorce” for a couple of years, and separatist movements are flourishing in Texas, New Hampshire, Alaska, and even, on the left, California. That division would be difficult, possibly even impossible, short of massive bloodshed, for, warns Griffiths, “treating the states as though they are either red or blue disguises the much more intermixed and purple characteristics of America.” Indeed, so divided are many places, even in rural areas, that the sole practicable maneuver might well be partition, which cost India and Pakistan more than a million dead when effected in 1947. If there were a Blueland, Griffiths adds in this evenhanded analysis, it would be small and not contiguous, making it difficult to govern; Redland would be largely depopulated and certainly far poorer than it is today, without the subsidies provided by the wealthier blue states. The Constitution offers no clear authority for secession, but that doesn’t dissuade fans of fragmentation. Yet, even while recognizing present-day discontentment and polarization, Griffiths wisely urges that “rather than divorce, counseling and working together is the better solution.”

In the early 20th century, Frona grows up as the responsible oldest daughter in a hardworking family, troubled by her many appetites and guilty about the reproving looks she thinks are given to her by the family icon of Mary and Jesus. Betrothed at 14, she moves at 18 to a new village with the stranger who will be her husband, the ugly but kindhearted Kimon, and discovers a “troubling enthusiasm over her husband’s body,” an enthusiasm that leads in quick succession to six children, who follow her around the village like ducklings. Frona befriends newcomer Ligia, who is forced into marriage with an abusive drinker and gambler. When it becomes clear that Ligia won’t be able to have the children she desires, Frona comes up with a plan that has unfortunate repercussions through the years. As the decades pass, focus shifts to Frona’s sweet herbalist daughter, Galena, and her best friend, the damaged mechanic and blackmailer Rouvin, and to a crafty plot to subdue the bored and increasingly violent soldiers who have occupied the town and led its residents toward starvation. While grounding her tale in the intimate details of village life, Staikos also ventures into the supernatural, most notably in the case of a character who wakes up from a violent death to a surprising afterlife as a ghost and finds himself “stuck in a world he had never let himself enjoy.” An exploration of guilt and the liberating effects of casting off shame, the novel regards even its most benighted characters with sympathy, and offers hope to those who would seem most entrenched in destructive patterns of thought and action.

In this memoir that highlights the challenges and rewards of training at an older age, the author emphasizes throughout that perseverance and adaptability are essential to progress. Here, Weiss looks back on his eventful athletic journey: from tentative first races—including an early, stinging DNF (Did Not Finish) that fueled his later determination—to completing a half-marathon while confronting doubts about his own speed (“While I didn’t give up on the idea of breaking one hour,” he says, “I was also starting to realize that I was never going to be fast. At 6′, 220 pounds, I did not exactly have a classic runner’s build.”) His discovery of cross-training, inspired by Chris Crowley’s self-help title Younger Next Year, marks a turning point in his development: “You do not have to get old the way you think,” Crowley writes, “you can become a radically better guy over the next five years and then level off.” Over time, the author pushes himself to compete in and finish several world-renowned races, demonstrating remarkable grit and personal growth. Race-day scenes are vivid and intimately detailed, such as passing by a group of Brownies handing out flags to honor 9/11 on a half-marathon course, and grappling with the notorious “brick” feeling he gets when transitioning from bike to run during his first triathlon. However, the detailed descriptions of each race occasionally drag, making for too slow a pace for more impatient readers. The memoir’s honest reflections on physical challenges and mental resilience resonate alongside classics like Haruki Murakami’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, blending the physical demands of sport with introspective growth. The author does not gloss over setbacks, such as calf pain that threatened his training, and the grueling heat of race day, which tested his endurance. This grounded authenticity will appeal to athletes and fitness enthusiasts alike, particularly those who value a thoughtful blend of motivation and realism.

Campbell candidly shares his experiences raising three children alongside his wife, Linda. Their oldest daughter, Alana, was born at an alternative birth center with no complications. Three years later, their second daughter, Kathryn, was also born without any trouble—only to be diagnosed with viral myocarditis (a life-threatening infection that attacks the heart) at just 10 days old. Kathryn managed to pull through despite a one-in-10 chance of survival, but she continues to live with various disabilities. Their youngest child, a son named Eric, was diagnosed with significant hearing loss as a toddler. In addition to stories about his children, Campbell touches on everything from his marriage to work stress to money woes. He also reflects upon the complicated relationship he had with his own “volcanic” father, and how that experience has made him all the more determined to guide his children through the world with love and compassion while being attuned to their vastly differing needs. The memoir concludes on a note of pride as Campbell discusses his children’s growing independence throughout the years. The narrative is written with clarity and unusual insight, even when detailing the most emotional moments: As his son sobs, believing his hearing has completely gone for good, Campbell muses, “[Eric] concluded in some primitive way that since his sister had nearly died, and also had a hearing loss, that he too faced the prospect of death. Many times, in my attempts to navigate the arc of fatherhood, I tried silently to probe into Eric’s and Kathryn’s psyches.” The dialogue sometimes comes across as a bit stiff, but this never overshadows the memoir’s heartbreaking yet inspirational portrait of a family. Ultimately, while Campbell’s specific hardships may not be relatable to all readers, the author’s love for and desire to do right by his children certainly will be.