A central paradox of the modern era is that we are becoming more unhappy even though, compared with hunter-gatherers, “the comforts, safety, and ease of our existence make us the equivalent of multimillionaires.” So says von Hippel, a longtime professor of psychology, who delved into sociology, anthropology, and biology for some answers. He argues that societies are constructed around two evolutionary imperatives: the need to connect with others, and the desire for personal autonomy. The people in hunter-gatherer societies tend to be quite happy because they have a network of connections, even while they have room for self-expression and individual action. As societies become more complex and productive, the autonomy imperative becomes dominant over the connection imperative, and the balance is lost. The point of equilibrium varies between individuals, but von Hippel says that everyone needs a mix of both—no amount of money, novelty, and blingy tech can make up for a lack of connection with others. The author devotes a chapter to the impact of social media, which can undermine genuine connections (not surprisingly) if the screen becomes central to one’s life. Used the right way, however, it can be a powerful antidote to an excess of autonomy. Von Hippel offers a series of suggestions for finding a better balance, mainly by making personal linkages a part of life rather than an occasional afterthought. “Choosing autonomy has become a habit for most of us,” he writes. “But once you start adding connection back into your daily life, that, too, will become automatic and easy. It should also be incredibly rewarding.”

“Good golden sun, / where have you been? / We’ve been waiting in the dark, / eager for your glow again.” Relying on gentle soft rhymes, an unseen narrator poses a series of questions to the sun. “Do you think about the scary things that sometimes lie in wait?” “Won’t you lend me some milk or meat? / Won’t you help to pull the plow?” Wenzel’s signature art, constructed out of cut paper, watercolor, acrylic, colored pencil, and crayon and digitally rendered, fits his text perfectly. The pop of the golden sun on each page serves as a distinct reminder about what lies in store. Though this isn’t an informational science tale, Wenzel’s art nevertheless highlights how energy from the sun passes from creature to creature. It might begin with a bee taking sustenance from flowers (which, notably, grow thanks to the energy of the sun). That bee then creates honey, which is eaten by a bear. After biting the bear, a mosquito is devoured by a bird, who in turn drops an egg, which is eaten by a mouse. The path of the sun’s energy—conveyed through a golden glow bathing one animal or another—never truly ceases. Readers will delight in tracing the sun’s path and all that it’s sure to contain.

Death and complications define Angie Sheehan’s life. At 17, she witnesses her younger sister, Diana, die in a ski accident that also injures her own boyfriend, Julian. She eventually leaves to become an artist in New York City, but just as her career begins to blossom, her father develops cancer and Angie moves back to Colorado to help run the family restaurant business and marries David, a law enforcement ranger for the National Park Service. A decade and a half later, she begins caring for her mother, who has Alzheimer’s disease, only to learn that her 14-year-old son, Nico, has juvenile Huntington’s disease. Then one night, her quiet daughter, Nora, kills Nico with her father’s gun. This tragedy sets off a series of life-altering events that include an uneasy reconnection with Julian. A successful criminal attorney now living in New York, Julian reluctantly returns to Colorado to help his lawyer mother defend Nora. Probing the memories of the main characters with sensitivity and insight, Koval takes readers on a journey into the sometimes-painful secrets they have kept from each other. Julian never tells Angie the degree of his involvement in her sister’s death or how it drove him to alcoholism, just as Angie never tells Julian—or David—that she conceived Nico just as she left Julian for David. While exploring the complexities of personal and family relationships, this engrossing, emotionally charged novel also examines the way forgiveness comes from acceptance that “each one of us is more than the worst we’ve ever done.”

Plunkett’s first book begins with a discussion of Frost’s interest in having Lawrance Thompson, a young acquaintance who knew the popular poet’s work well, write his official biography, which he would do, in prize-winning volumes, portraying Frost (1874-1963) as an “ornery, erratic old man.” Plunkett then begins his own insightful, non-ornery biography. Long associated with rural New England, Frost was born in San Francisco, where, Plunkett writes, the boy “enjoyed keeping hens in his parents’ yard.” The family moved to the mill town of Lawrence, Massachusetts, in 1884 after his father died. In 1894, Frost published his first poem, “My Butterfly,” oozing Shelley-esque imitations. Plunkett describes the burgeoning poet as “acutely conscious of his strange interiority, varieties of solitary and halfway-dreamed experience.” Later that year, Plunkett argues, Frost wrote his “first truly original poem”—“Flower-Gathering”—for Elinor, his wife. After moving to a farm in New Hampshire, he wrote “Mowing.” The sonnet’s “talk-song” style had a major impact on his poetic voice thereafter. Plunkett carefully goes through Frost’s first published collection, A Boy’s Will, his “spiritual autobiography,” revealing other poets’ influence on Frost’s work. In 1914, in England, Frost composed “The Road Not Taken”—“arguably the most famous poem in all of American literature.” While there, he published North of Boston, became good friends with fellow poet Edward Thomas, and briefly came under the spell of Ezra Pound. After North of Boston was published in America, Frost’s reputation grew—reviews, readings, lectures, fellowships, all yielding much-needed income. Teaching at Dartmouth College in the 1940s, he wrote a number of poems “that were good of their kind but his best work in prose.” Unfortunately, his personal life was a bit of a mess. In 1959 the poet wrote to Thompson that “one or other of us will fathom me sooner or later.” Plunkett has, now—warts and all.