Category: Book Review

Glorious. Humane. Funny. Furious.

What I Read June 2026

Runs into blog carrying a stack of books.

Hi! Sorry I’m late. I know I’m not “the cavalry has missed the battle” late. But a little late.

…It’s just that this month has been…

Holds up one finger…

Hang on…

Several deep breaths.

…You know what? It doesn’t matter. Everybody’s month has been amonth. Nobody needs me filing an extension request with my own blog.

Sorry, just a second please…I seem to have overexerted myself…

One more deep breath.

Good grief. Sprinting into your own blog is a young person’s game.

Bends over and puts hands on knees.

Jeez, I’m out of shape.

Whew! Okay. This month: weird brilliant people doing weird, brilliant, consequential things.

Children, teenagers, writers, neighborhoods, eras, nations all trying to become something before they know exactly what that something is.

Grabs water bottle and chugs for a good 15 seconds.

Anyway, enough philosophizing and dramatically bolting into my own post. I’ve got five books to talk about, and if I don’t start now, this’ll become next month’s reading roundup.

Which is all just to say here are the books I enjoyed enough to finish this month.

  • The Greatest Sentence Ever Written by Walter Isaacson
  • The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros
  • Slouching Towards Bethlehem by Joan Didion
  • Now Is Not the Time to Panic by Kevin Wilson
  • Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi

Note: For sanity and scale (mine, yours, and the internet’s), what follows are the openings of each review. Full versions are linked below.


THE GREATEST SENTENCE EVER WRITTEN by WALTER ISAACSON

The Greatest Sentence Ever Written takes the second sentence of the Declaration of Independence (“We hold these truths to be self-evident…”) and treats it as the protagonist in a story still unfolding.

Magnificent.

I mean, most sentences are not generally carrying the moral aspirations of an entire nation for the better part of two and a half centuries, and yet…this one has been drafted, edited, celebrated, weaponized, ignored, embroidered, recited by schoolchildren, shouted by abolitionists, borrowed by suffragists, quoted by civil rights leaders, and repeatedly forced to testify against the country that invented it. That’s a hell of a strong lift for thirty-something words.

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THE HOUSE ON MANGO STREET by SANDRA CISNEROS

I read a lot of books that make me want to read more books.

The House on Mango Street made me want to write better.

I came to The House on Mango Street because my daughter sang its praises. She loved the language, the architecture of the storytelling, the way the novel gathered itself from brief, luminous pieces instead of long, sweeping chapters. For weeks she kept returning to it in conversation. So I read it. She makes excellent recommendations.

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SLOUCHING TOWARDS BETHLEHEM by JOAN DIDION

The biggest risk I take reading Joan Didion is that by the end of every essay, I am absolutely convinced I should write like Joan Didion. This delusion lasts until I remember I do not think like Joan Didion, nor do I arrange the world into crystalline observations like Joan Didion. Her notebook, unlike mine, is probably not filled with things that say “Bananas???” and “My elbow is weird.” Didion and I are worlds apart, is what I’m saying, and my life is much less for it.

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NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO PANIC by KEVIN WILSON

There are two things Americans love more than minding our own business:

  1. Not minding our own business.
  2. Convincing ourselves that a thing (that is usually none of our business) means something it does not mean.

Look, civilization is held together by a fragile social contract. Most of us agree not to panic about things. We agree not to form mobs. We agree to use our brains and our words when something unusual happens. Yet, all it takes is a sufficiently mysterious poster and enough people convinced that uncertainty is intolerable for that social contract to dissolve.

(continued here)


PERSEPOLIS by MARJANE SATRAPI

Somehow I had reached adulthood without ever reading Persepolis.

It is subtitled “the story of a childhood.” This is inadequate and also perfect. These types of contradictions make up the friction and the heart of this book.

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And there be the June reads. As always, I welcome any recommendations! Read any good books lately?

Monster Songs and Other Survival Manuals: What I Read May 2026

graphic titled “Monster Songs and Other Survival Manuals: What I Read May 2026” with book covers for The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Grendel’s Mother, Feminasty, and A Far Cry from Kensington on a bright green background.

The fact that I managed to read anything in May is clap-worthy. Not that clap. Regular clap. Keep it moving and behave yourself.

It’s been busy, is what I mean. So I, like anyone who read anything in May, deserve some sort of award. Not a major award. Just a tasteful certificate or a tasty pan pizza. Perhaps a small parade. Nothing extravagant, one small horse or large dog dragging me around town in a red wagon. Maybe we can be joined by a tuba player. Or maybe the dog can play the tuba while the horse drags me around. Look, I’ll sort out the logistics and report back.

And yet I ended up with a stack of books so good that I stopped treating reading like a little end-of-day reward and started ignoring actual responsibilities to read. Sorry to anyone who sent me an email, a text, a carrier pigeon, smoke signals, or did a cool semaphore flag routine in my backyard. I thought you were my parade and I was waiting for the tuba-playing dog.

These books were master classes on surviving broken systems. We’ve got intergalactic bureaucracy, Anglo-Saxon blood feuds, London publishing politics, and feminist rage. Basically, four very different ways of telling us that most systems are badly designed, the people running them are usually the least suited to the task, and women disproportionately suffer. Shocking.

This month’s reading was a refreshing reminder that humanity has, across centuries and galaxies, remained remarkably consistent and disappointing. Fertile ground for brilliant storytelling.

Which is all just to say, here are the books I finished this month:

  • The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams
  • Grendel’s Mother by Susan Signe Morrison
  • Feminasty by Erin Gibson
  • A Far Cry From Kensington by Muriel Spark

Note: For sanity and scale (mine, yours, and the internet’s), what follows are the openings of each review. Full versions are linked below.


The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

This book is absolutely ridiculous. I am obsessed with it.

Douglas Adams’s The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy explains the universe using a towel, a depressed robot, and several increasingly terrible planning committees. It’s a madcap extravaganza about space, improbability, bureaucracy, bad timing, excellent timing, strange people, and one bewildered Englishman.

(continued here)


Grendel’s Mother by Susan Signe Morrison

You know the story. Big guy. Great hair probably. Sword. Mead hall full of dudes named something like Hrothgar son of Skullthumper, son of Other Skullthumper. Monster attacks. Hero flexes. History gets written by whichever man survives long enough to hire a bard. Classic.

But Susan Signe Morrison’s Grendel’s Mother walks straight into that testosterone-soaked corpse pile, picks up the narrative by its ankle, and drags it screaming into the deep water where it belongs.

This is, technically speaking, a retelling of Beowulf, which is itself a very old story about men hitting things with swords while suffering from what historians professionally refer to as “an absolutely catastrophic inability to process emotions.” Traditionally, the poem’s second monster, Grendel’s mother, is presented as a sort of swamp-adjacent horror woman lurking beneath a lake waiting to avenge her son, which everyone agrees is terribly unreasonable behavior, unlike, say, razing villages or hacking each other apart in ceremonial blood feuds.

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Feminasty: The Complicated Woman’s Guide to Surviving the Patriarchy Without Drinking Herself to Death by Erin Gibson

Feminasty: The Complicated Woman's Guide to Surviving the Patriarchy Without Drinking Herself to Death

Erin Gibson’s Feminasty is a rage-song for the girls carrying keys between their knuckles.

It is sharp, furious, and profane. Thank God. Misogyny is not something women should have to discuss in a soft voice while reassuring everyone nearby that we’re still nice. Fortunately, Gibson has no interest in making patriarchy feel comfortable or palatable. There’s no “Now, to be fair…” or “Not all men” panic disclaimer tucked into the corners.

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A Far Cry from Kensington by Muriel Spark

Set in 1950s London, A Far Cry from Kensington follows Mrs. Hawkins, a wartime widow working in publishing amid cliques, office politics, anonymous letters, fraud, paranoia, terrible writers, love affairs, blackmail, and other sinister and morally ugly behaviors. It is all tea trays and landladies and little typed notes, but underneath the upholstery there are wolves gnawing bones.

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And there be the May reads. As always, I welcome any recommendations! Read any good books lately?

Witnessing

What I Read April 2026

Graphic with a muted pink background and large serif title “Witnessing,” with subtitle “What I Read April 2026.” Below are four book covers in a row: The Making of Marigold McGrath by Carrie Hayes, Vigil by George Saunders, Beloved by Toni Morrison, and The Great Game by Andrés Martinez. At the bottom, it reads “by Jackie Pick.”

I tried very hard not to have a theme this month.

I know I say that a lot, but this time I meant it. I was just going to read books without some moment where I dramatically connect everything and pretend I planned it that way. It would have saved me from unnecessarily firing neurons I am trying to save for winter.

And then, somehow, there was a theme. Somewhere between books two and three, I realized we were doing a thing.

That thing, by the way, is witnessing. (That “we” by the way is…I don’t know.)

And yes, I mean the very lofty “bear witness” kind. Dress up in a robe, grab your favorite gavel, and put it in your non-book-holding hand. Congratulations! You’re in for some really amazing reads! Just watch where you point that gavel.

Across wildly different books (historical fiction, literary fiction, cultural analysis, whatever it is George Saunders is up to) the same problem keeps showing up. People living (and dying) inside events they may not fully understand. People documenting, interpreting, misinterpreting, or just standing there blinking, as history (or morality, or love, or grief, or politics) does its thing.

Which is all just to say, here are the books I finished this month:

  • Beloved by Toni Morrison
  • Vigil by George Saunders
  • The Making of Marigold McGrath by Carrie Hayes
  • The Great Game by Andrés Martinez

Note: For sanity and scale (mine, yours, and the internet’s), what follows are the openings of each review. Full versions are linked below.


Beloved by Toni Morrison

Toni Morrison observed that there were no adequate memorials for those who were enslaved in the United States. “No small bench by the road,” no modest roadside markers, no sanctioned sites of mourning. So she wrote one. Beloved is a monument of language and memory. There is, to my knowledge, no more fitting extension of a literary work into the world.

I find myself hesitating to even try to articulate my admiration for fear of diminishing the work. From the first page, it is clear you are entering a kind of sacred space, one that is welcoming and exacting and asks you to be your best self. To sit with the past, witness, reckon, and repair.

(continued here)


Vigil by George Saunders

Vigil is George Saunders doing the afterlife thing he does so well, this time with even more bite and a contemporary target. It’s set in an in-between space that’s not quite heaven, not quite anywhere you can Yelp, where a spirit’s job is to help the dying make peace before they go. Like cosmic hospice with moral stakes.

(continued here)


The Making of Marigold McGrath by Carrie Hayes

Historical fiction set during World War II is something I tend to approach with high expectations and a ready-to-go side-eye, but The Making of Marigold McGrath by Carrie Hayes won me over with its intelligence, its restraint, and its refreshing perspective on what it means to come of age while the world is unraveling. Hayes gifts us a story about what it means to live inside and bear witness to a moment that has not yet resolved into history.

(continued here)


The Great Game by Andrés Martinez

Ordinarily, I don’t read sports books. I barely watch sports. Sports are what I put on when my brain needs a screensaver or my children are in the room and I’d like to keep them there a little longer. But The Great Game by Andrés Martinez is a book about everything sports touch: politics, power, media, identity, community. It’s also very much a book about America’s favorite pastime: wanting to be part of the world while also insisting we should do our own thing.

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And there be the April reads. As always, I welcome any recommendations! Read any good books lately?