“I still can’t believe I wrote and published an essay collection spurred solely by my love for reading.” Readers of this book might feel the same way. Filled with breathless pleasure, this clutch of essays by Korean author Hwang (Welcome to the Hyunam-dong Bookshop, 2022) hovers between the trite and the profound. Big books take time. Reading at night prompts thoughts and dreams. Always take a book on vacation. Some books are not worth finishing (Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose stands out here). Then, there are books that offer something new each time we open them. Thoreau’s Walden prompts the reader to think seriously about life choices. How can you “truly live a life [you] wanted”? But all the reader gets is: “I respect Thoreau for looking beyond the superficial things in life in search for his ideal way of living, and so I eagerly recommended his books to my friends.” Anyone who reads for pleasure or instruction will agree with the author: “The joy of reading extends beyond the last page of the book.” Or: “The biggest charm of book clubs is how they encourage a difference in opinions.” Aristotle, Hannah Arendt, and Goethe jostle throughout, their powerful quotations often reduced to banalities. The most absorbing sections of the book are the author’s reflections on reading in Korea and on the ways in which contemporary Korean writers seek to balance self-examined life with professional striving. There is a larger point about the sociology of reading—about the ways in which books, bookstores, book clubs, and television interviews contribute to a literate, reflective life. But much of this remains implicit. “Books are friends we make along life’s journey.” Would that this book had been a more compelling companion.

Luchs opens by explaining that he was first drawn to poetry by a “fascination with its music, its magic, its mystery and its power to move me emotionally, intellectually and spiritually.” As the author notes, the essays collected here are “not academic treatises” but personal reflections written to encourage “increas[ed] understanding and enjoyment.” He begins with Wallace Stevens’ “Of Mere Being,” analyzing the poem and then including one of his own as a reaction. This structure—part essay, part creative echo—sets the form for the rest of the collection, forming an ongoing dialectic between reading and writing. Luchs unpacks his selections’ language, rhythms, and historical contexts before distilling his reactions into verse. The result is a dialogue between criticism and creation in which reading becomes a catalyst for writing. The author moves through a wide range of poets and eras, using the same framework to explore the meaning of each writer’s work. He discusses Philip Larkin’s “Annus Mirabilis” in the context of the 1960s cultural shifts that surrounded it and turns to D. H. Lawrence with an eye on psychological and emotional texture. Nobel laureate Wislawa Szymborska, whom Luchs calls “highly improbable,” receives both biographical attention and effective, succinct interpretation: “She’s telling us who she is here, and by implication asking us who we are.” The author broadens his scope to include poets from varied traditions and backgrounds, such as Chilean author Gabriela Mistral and Black poet Lucille Clifton, noting the importance of engaging with different perspectives. Other essays focus on Jorge Luis Borges, Federico Garcia Lorca, and Lewis Carroll (whose “Jabberwocky” Luchs traces through its many cultural impacts). The work closes by reaching back to Homer before rounding out the tour with more contemporary poets, including Charles Simic and James Tate.

Luchs writes with a tone that is both pedagogical and inviting, balancing humility with the learned wit of a scholar. The author’s enthusiasm for the poets he discusses recalls a warm teacher eager to share an infectious passion for the subject. He offers concise, confident introductions, swiftly capturing each poet’s defining traits; of Robinson Jeffers, Luchs identifies the Greeks and the King James Bible as the poet’s “lifelong companions.” The author often leans into a slightly stuffy, bookish sense of humor, but his timing keeps it playful—he writes of David Ignatow, “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you talk to your daughter about death, yours and hers and everyone’s.” A refreshing self-awareness grounds the work, as Luchs mentions his own struggles with fiction: “Anyway, don’t hold your breath,” he jokes, making him approachable and relatable. His criticism is similarly accessible, best suited to readers and writers seeking to deepen their appreciation of great poets; those desiring more rigorous academic analysis may find his readings somewhat surface level. Still, anyone who has tried to emulate the greats will find something deeply resonant in the author’s own creations: “The sweet amnesia of snow and cold is no less merciful / than that of the poem never written, never published, / or perhaps, published and quickly lost among so many others.”

This new publication of the CCAR Press, the publication arm of the professional association of Reform rabbis, touches on a range of issues, from the philosophical, such as why morality is needed in addition to law in order to have a functional society, to the specific, like addressing issues ranging from reproductive technology and artificial intelligence. In probing these issues through the lens of what it means to be human, this book includes a particularly challenging essay regarding the traditional hierarchy of human life over animal life, and how people can avoid, or at least minimize, the exploitation of animals in their daily lives—something that seems more feasible in an age when there are so many alternatives to animal-based products. One of the most intriguing and hopeful works in this collection includes one on artificial intelligence, which both demystifies and lays out what AI’s real hazards are (“We have already ceded much of our agency to artificial intelligence, and we haven’t even noticed,” writes rabbi Geoffrey A. Mitelman), and another on changing communications technologies, which lays out their rewards, as well as their risks. This book features many thought-provoking essays, and most do a skillful job of making abstruse issues intelligible, although some work better than others. One essay, for instance, uses queer theory to reinterpret the biblical ben sorer u’moreh (wayward and rebellious son); it makes a good effort to address a troubling biblical passage, but ends up sounding forced in its conclusions. Also, the afterword seems like odd placement for the summary of the book’s chapters, which would have worked better as an introduction.

Rosalie Solis is tired of being part of an influencer family and having all her private moments shared publicly. Her parents constantly film her and her little sister, Gennie, crafting storylines for their lives that include Rosalie pretending to date her best friend, Diego, even though neither of them is attracted to people of the other’s gender. Rosalie and Gennie are home-schooled in order to provide more opportunities for their parents to film them; when Stella, a non-influencer girl, joins their community because her fibromyalgia makes a regular school schedule difficult, Rosalie is taken with her. A scary run-in with a fan brings to a head Rosalie’s concerns about the effects of her parents’ prioritizing content over the emotional needs of their children, and she decides to take drastic action to reclaim their lives. This accessible novel in verse about the dark, sometimes dangerous effects of influencing will appeal to readers who consume social media, including those who may not have considered who’s harmed in its creation. While watching Rosalie come to terms with the damage her parents have done is difficult, the story’s heavier elements are offset by the sweetness of her developing romance with Stella. Rosalie and Gennie are white, Stella is of Chinese and Italian descent, and Diego was transracially adopted from Panama.

Readers first meet Eve Kelly in 1883, when she’s 3 years old, living in upstate New York. She has begun to show signs that she possesses mystical abilities, which erupt suddenly and result in the death of her father. Her mother, Moira, takes Eve to an Irish spiritualist, who locks the child’s powers away in a magical pearl. In 1899, 18-year-old Eve and her mother are housekeepers in the Tarrytown Inn, north of New York City. Facing discrimination because they’re Irish, they’ve moved from job to job and place to place. Now, Eve must contend with the lascivious advances of the men of the Tarrytown Inn. She convinces her mother to apply for work with the ultrawealthy Rennard family, owners of the massive Greythorne Mansion, just outside Poughkeepsie. To Eve’s delight, their applications are accepted, and within a few days the Rennard coach arrives to pick them up. Inside the coach are the beautiful heiress, Saskia Rennard, and her aunt, Winifred Price, who are on their way home following a year in Europe. Much to her displeasure, Saskia has returned at her father’s command because it’s time for her to find a husband. She’s immediately intrigued by Eve, and soon Eve’s powers begin to break loose as Bergman pulls readers into a tale that combines a chronicle of a developing passionate relationship between two women and a graphically dark horror story, filled with malevolence. The profound wickedness that lurks within the stone walls of the massive estate emerges gradually. Alternately narrated by Eve and Saskia, the plot unfolds in a fashion that offers vivid lifestyle descriptions (“My attention drifted to the exquisite gold Lalique bracelet I had acquired from my Parisian admirer, the Marquis d’Limousin”) and well-developed portraits of the two vastly different women. When Saskia’s father hosts the Rennard family’s annual Ambrose Hunt, the sinister plot that is hiding behind upper-class graces and accoutrements unfolds in gripping detail.