Researchers too often dismiss homelessness as a social problem that will “always be with us.” But the truth is far more complex. Drawing on historical analysis, policy research, and his own experiences working with homeless people, Markee argues that modern mass homelessness is an offshoot of the neoliberal agenda that has overtaken American politics. He begins by suggesting that the current “New Gilded Age” era mirrors the original Gilded Age’s extreme inequalities. Taking New York as his starting point, Markee examines the relationship between urban homelessness to economic crises like the Panic of 1873 and the Great Depression. Both led to dispossession, especially among those already made vulnerable by race or class, but it was not until the recession of the 1970s—and the brutal policies of austerity that defined it—that the modern phenomenon of mass homelessness emerged. Yet the problem was never linked to systemic/policy failures that resulted in, for example, the loss of affordable housing or the deinstitutionalization of the mentally ill. Rather, blame was laid on homeless people themselves, who were categorized as a blight on urban spaces and demonized as criminals. From New York, mass homelessness spread to other cities across the United States during the 1980s as a pro-capitalist Reagan administration laid the foundation for Trumpian “oligarchical ethnonationalism.” Despite the current dominance of neoliberalism, Markee holds out hope that more compassionate policies—like laws ensuring the right to shelter—can return incrementally through continued social activism that remembers the sacrifices of homeless people Markee memorializes by name throughout the book.

“Fuck it, is the general feeling here, because we are minimum-wage employees in a doomed independent bookstore in Louisville, Kentucky.” So opens Henderson’s 50th edition (“L in the dead language”) of his prize volume, the words a bitter salvo from Christie Hodgen’s story “Rich Strike.” The year is 1999, the malcontents are young MFA holders who will go on to lives of unquiet desperation. If there’s a theme that runs through this volume, it’s just that: Granted that literary writers tend not to be the happiest bunch, there’s seldom a smile cracked in this portly anthology. There are some nicely ironic turns, though. One comes from Sarah Green’s found poem, “Tinder,” made up of pitch lines from the eponymous dating service, such as this: “I’m sort of like a deer: wild & free; gentle, yet / Love my life, won’t settle, must see stars.” (Now that’s a writer who deserves more space here.) Another irony begins with Ryan Van Meter’s “An Essay About Coyotes,” which is mostly about a dead dog, complete with the admonition to his writing students, “Write the animal essay that only you can write. Please don’t make me read fifteen dead dog essays.” A dead-dog essay follows a few dozen pages later, and an almost-dead-dog story follows shortly afterward, one that could be a country song (“Their mother is serving eighteen months in a state penitentiary after a prescription drug–fueled joyride…”). The book’s highlights are many, but the best are nonfiction, one a meditation on cancer by the noted poet Ted Kooser, the other a lovely memoir by Stephen Akey called “The Department of Everything” that recounts time spent as a reference librarian answering questions such as, “What time was low tide in Boston Harbor on May 14, 1932?” Nothing about dead dogs, though…

“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.