Just over halfway through McAndrew’s collection comes a story called “Crime and Punishment,” a title that would accurately describe most of these tales, which often reckon with incarceration, guilt, and the aftereffects of violent acts. Sometimes that reaches baroque heights, as in “The Storyteller,” about a couple named Wayne and Nancy who buy “the house that had been the site of the famous Hobson murders.” The violent acts that took place there don’t return to the surface until the pair has divorced, with the house’s potential for supernatural visitations something Wayne taps into in conversations with his children. The young narrator of the title story sees an arm waving from a nearby prison and starts to wonder what its owner’s story might be: “at bedtime, my imagination unraveled like a scroll of every crime I’d ever heard of.” McAndrew has sympathy for many of his characters; Maria, protagonist of “The Familiar Dark,” has a penchant for casual burglary but winds up helping an older woman, Ania, who’s in the midst of a complicated grieving process. Late in the collection, McAndrew uses questions of crime and guilt to raise the stakes, placing his characters in places where they must try to understand the people in their lives—whether it’s a relative who committed a terrible act in “Letters From Toby” or a man with a penchant for unusual pets living in a halfway house in “How I Came To See the World.” McAndrew doesn’t shrink from asking big moral questions, and his fiction abounds with lived-in touches and a sense of scale.

Art historian Farrington has edited a comprehensive collection of statements from more than 60 Black artists, from the turn of the 20th century to the present, reflecting on their aesthetic goals, their connection to European and indigenous artistic movements, and their response to the call from the community to create a Black aesthetic. Some artists gained easy recognition; others struggled with poverty and bias: “The pathology of racism has affected most, if not all, of them,” Farrington reveals. Organized chronologically and thematically, the collection begins in 1879 with Henry Tanner, the first African American to enroll at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, and Alain Locke, a leading Black intellectual and Howard University professor. The Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s and 1930s is represented by 10 artists, including sculptor Meta Warrick Fuller, who studied with Rodin, Nancy Elizabeth Prophet, Romare Bearden, and Jacob Lawrence. Two sections are devoted to the Black diaspora: The first, which emerged as a sister movement of the Harlem Renaissance, aimed to foster international Black consciousness in the arts; the later movement, in the 1960s and ’70s, sought racial solidarity in the wake of decolonization. Other sections gather artists’ responses to abstract art, activism during the Black Arts Movement of the 1960s, Black feminist art, and conceptual art. A final section, titled “Rethinking Race,” features artists working at the turn of the 21st century who engage with—and argue about—the term “post-Black.” Included in this section are some well-known figures: Jean Michel-Basquiat, MacArthur Fellow Kara Walker, and Obama portraitist Kehinde Wiley. The handsomely produced volume includes 14 color images and 21 black-and-white images. Each of the book’s nine sections is contextualized with a perceptive introduction.

Damrosch is one of the preeminent literary biographers of our time, and this magnificent biography of Robert Louis Stevenson reveals much about a writer that we think we knew. Details of childhood reading, adult adventures, and professional ambition abound. Damrosch shows how important Stevenson’s marriage was to the creation of his fictions. Fanny Stevenson and her sister, Nellie, come alive here in rich quotations from biographies and letters. Nellie’s assessment of her sister and brother-in-law’s marriage is a fulcrum on which the book balances: “Her profound faith in his genius before the rest of the world had come to recognize it had a great deal to do with keeping up his faith in himself.” Theirs was a marriage of “anarchic excitement,” and Damrosch limns their life together with all the vividness of a 19th-century melodramatist. Family is one thing. Land is another: Scotland, California, Samoa. Damrosch makes the point that it was the physical environment that stimulated Stevenson—that his writing comes not simply from his own imagination, but from the interaction of that imagination with landscape. Stevenson’s best fictions, therefore, have all the realism and coherence of a great map. Treasure Island succeeds not so much on the depth of its characters but on the vigor of its realism. Damrosch quotes Stevenson: “The great creative writer shows us the realization and the apotheosis of the daydreams of common men. His stories may be nourished with the realities of life, but their true mark is to satisfy the nameless longings of the reader, and to obey the ideal laws of the daydream.” Stevenson’s life and work meet at the intersection of reality and daydream, longing and satisfaction. Damrosch makes the real seem dreamed and the dreamed real.

Ptashnik uses a question-and-answer structure to tell the story of an anxious baby chickadee who wonders, “What if I never learn how to fly?” An adult chickadee affirms: “You will learn when the time comes!” From there, the conversation turns to how other birds fly, with the baby assessing its own abilities. After discovering that hummingbirds flap their wings fast, the little one suspects that method might be too tiring. “Are there ways to fly without flapping my wings so much?” it asks. “Wandering albatrosses spend most of their lives soaring above the seas,” answers the adult. Baby worries about being able to catch the wind the way albatrosses do. From there, the two discuss birds who don’t fly at all, like penguins and ostriches; those that fly as a group, like starlings; and loners, like owls. Centered on the gentle rapport between baby and adult, Ptashnik’s sweet narrative is filled with facts, but her true gifts are as an illustrator rather than a storyteller. Her digitally created spreads depicting the variety of feathers used for flying, dreamy views of penguins knifing through the water, pelicans swooping into the water as people fish by the docks, and condors taking flight are knockouts full of watery-windy movement and reflective light and shadow.

At the heart of this book is the recovery framework of Alcoholics Anonymous, the Twelve Steps group members follow in their struggle to return to sobriety. The author, writing anonymously, attempts to map the Twelve Steps onto the outline of the hero’s journey as described by Joseph Campbell in his book The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949), noting that Bill Wilson, the co-founder of AA and the creator of the Twelve Steps, “reached into the collective unconscious, drew out this archetypal pattern of transformation,” and created “the modern map of recovery.” The author goes through the Twelve Steps one by one, discussing each in detail and drawing comparisons with a roughly equivalent stage of the hero’s journey as described by Campbell. Step 5, for instance, requires an admission “to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.” The author expertly elaborates: “The alcoholic ego wants to turn to what it believes is an easier way of dealing with these defects which doesn’t include self-disclosure,” adding, “These easier, softer ways didn’t work before, and they will certainly not work now.” The book’s organizing conceit is obvious but nonetheless effective. And although the author’s underlying assertion that the recovery process is itself heroic, which is certainly true, the book’s main attraction throughout is the wonderfully sharp and knowing reflections on the nature of addiction and recovery writ more broadly. The device of mapping this onto Campbell is thought-provoking, but it’s the author’s deeply felt plumbing of the “abyss of self” through which every addict must journey that makes the book so unexpectedly gripping. Recovering addicts and alcoholics in particular should read this book, not because they consider themselves heroes (far from it; humility is built into the Twelve Steps), but to find their struggles very eloquently described.