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Inside the Jeselnik Book Club: How Anthony Jeselnik is making reading cool

Years ago, at the height of his success, Anthony Jeselnik couldn’t sleep. It was making him crazy. Hoping to find relief, the comedian sought help from a therapist he assumed would guide him back to a healthy sleep schedule. Instead, he encountered an apathy that stunned him.

“So what?” he recalls her saying. “So what if you don’t sleep? If you wake up, read a book. Find ways to be productive in your loneliness.”

Anthony Jeselnik

Anthony Jeselnik grows earnest when he talks about his love for books.

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

The advice resonated. Today, the comedian is still reading alone, only now he has a dog — and an audience. A lifelong reader, Jeselnik has transformed his literary habit into a popular online book club, Jeselnik Book Club, where he recommends novels and invites discussion on his YouTube channel. His first video, posted in January and reviewing Jim Thompson’s “The Getaway,” garnered over 31,000 views. Each month, he chooses a novel and offers it up for discussion.

“My goal was to curate and give people their best shot at enjoying reading,” he says. It’s a valiant effort, considering that reading has been in a steady decline. Last year, it was reported that the number of American readers had declined by 40% over the previous two decades.

“People will say, ‘Oh, I don’t like reading books.’ You’re choosing the wrong books,” says Jeselnik, his voice likely ringing with his signature snark because he, for the most part, knows otherwise. In 2022, bestselling writer Isaac Fitzgerald, who recently released the anticipated American Rambler: Walking the Trail of Johnny Appleseed,” witnessed the power of a Jeselnik recommendation.

Anothony Jeselnik

“It helps with the masculinity crisis in that reading is masculine. It is a masculine thing to do,” Anthony Jeselnik argues, advocating that young men trade online conspiracy forums for literature.

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

“A friend texted me that Anthony Jeselnik, a comedian whom I loved but had never met nor interacted with — shouted out his love of my memoir, ‘Dirtbag, Massachusetts,’ on his podcast. I was thrilled,” Fitzgerald says. “At my events, both in Chicago and throughout the rest of that year, more and more people in my signing lines told me they’d heard of the book from Jeselnik’s podcast. I was also buoyed by how many of the people in the signing lines were young men.”

Since then, despite Jeselnik’s self-proclaimed loner status, Fitzgerald and Jeselnik have struck up a friendship. “The man is a real lover of books, with excellent taste and, unsurprisingly, confidence in his convictions,” Fitzgerald says. Earlier this year, the author held a book launch event for “American Rambler” at Skylight Books in Los Feliz. Jeselnik hosted. “I think he may have single-handedly invented a new way to do literary events. I don’t know what to call it … a literary roast?” Fitzgerald says. “Everyone laughed for an hour straight.”

In a sun-drenched luxury apartment above Hollywood Boulevard, Jeselnik explains that he mostly avoids the press — because he says he’s become weary of cancel culture and identity politics, conversations that have mired comedy.

Still, he welcomes the chance to discuss books, his voice swelling with excitement at the mention of authors Emily St. John Mandel and Ottessa Moshfegh — both personal favorites. Almost an hour into the conversation, the comedian reveals that he has Joan Didion’s author photo tattooed on his chest. His hand rests on his heart as he evangelizes her writing — a surprisingly tender moment of sentimentality from a comedian who has made a career out of stinging misanthropy.

“She has the cleanest prose. I think she’s the best writer of all time,” Jeselnik says. “I’ve read all of her novels, a lot of her essays. Her book about her husband dying is one of the most heartbreaking books.”

In fact, Didion is a natural match for the comedian. He is renowned for his precise and restrained use of language, delivering provocative truths about people’s ugliest impulses and asking the audience to laugh at them.

In the comedy world, Jeselnik has become legendary for his razor-edged one-liners, each joke ending with a dark reversal. He’s gained a reputation as the provocative bad boy of comedy with irresistible charm. Over the course of his career, he has enjoyed toying with this stage persona, which he jokes is that of a “borderline psychopath.” His roast of Donald Trump catapulted him to stardom, and he has released five hourlong comedy specials, the most recent of which, “Bones and All,” debuted in 2024. On Instagram, he has over 1 million followers.

“I was trying to be the devil onstage and somehow ended up as likable anyway,” he says of his storied career. This interests him in literature too — transcending reputation through good art. “Edgar Allan Poe wrote these books about psychopaths and killers. Authors do not equal their persona.”

Anothony Jeselnik

“I’m trying to make reading cool again,” Anthony Jeselnik says. “Reading is a solitary act in the way that stand-up comedy is a solitary art form.”

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

Jeselnik’s book club recommendations are eclectic and literary — the kind of titles name-dropped in MFA writing workshops and met with impressed nods at dinner parties. Most recently, he recommended “Stoner” by John Williams, “Dept. of Speculation” by Jenny Offill, and “Paradais” by Fernanda Melchor. He curates his recommendations painstakingly, choosing brisk reads of around 250 pages that he hopes will hook new readers.

“I’m trying to make reading cool again,” Jeselnik notes. “Reading is a solitary act in the way that stand-up comedy is a solitary art form.”

He hopes his fan base embraces a life of reading. Similarly, in 2025, comedian John Mulaney also began recommending books on social media. “There are so few books for guys that are literary. There’s a lot of John Grisham and Jack Reacher, but there’s not something literary that a guy can sink his teeth into,” Jeselnik says. “If it’s well written, and the writer is great, then I’ll go on any kind of journey they take me on. I don’t always understand everything that I read, either. But reading a great writer, it’s like listening to classical music.”

With anti-intellectualism in comedy on the rise, he says his book club stands as an antidote to the manosphere. Young men passing time on conspiracy theory-infested corners of Reddit should instead pick up a novel, the comedian argues. “It helps with the masculinity crisis in that reading is masculine. It is a masculine thing to do,” he says. “The Hemingways of the world were out there. It used to be a badass thing to be a writer, and a brave thing to put your thoughts onto the page and publish them.”

The comedian has been a voracious reader since childhood. When he was in a Montessori school, the teachers discovered that reading would soothe Jeselnik. “I could go sit in a corner, and you can be a juvenile delinquent reading juvenile delinquent books.” Reading gave him a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction that followed him into early adulthood — a penchant he would like to stoke in his fans.

Early on, when Jeselnik discovered Bret Easton Ellis’ work, it felt revelatory. “Once you got outside of the curriculum, it was revolutionary to me to read Bret Easton Ellis; to read about sex, gay sex, to read about drugs, and people, young people, doing this was fascinating.”

Starting a book club felt like a natural progression for Jeselnik’s decadelong career, he explains. “In terms of how I do things and my approach to stand-up, instead of doing a podcast, having a book club seems like a natural extension of that.” There’s an earnestness in his appreciation of great literature that translates to his videos. “You can tell that I like the book and want people to enjoy it at the same level.”

Jeselnik, 47, imagines his comedy career is winding down. Thankfully for his fans, he has other creative ambitions. “I’d love to take a crack at either short stories or writing a novel.”

He reflects on the trend of comedians who, later in their careers, seek new legitimacy. “You see a guy like Jim Carrey: the last thing he wants to do is make anyone laugh anymore. He wants to be taken so seriously,” he says. Jeselnik believes his stage persona spared him from that particular crisis of self. “People are afraid of me. Fans who approach me are careful because my stage persona is borderline psychopath,” he says. “I don’t feel that same need to be taken seriously. I think I am taken seriously.”

His comedic sensibility explores cruelty, shock, transgressions and antiheroes — and it’s also what continues to draw him to literature. “I love bank robbers. I love the idea of the villain winning. That is revolutionary to me. You’re raised on TV, and things have to be wrapped up in half an hour, and the moral has to hold,” Jeselnik says. “I love that books don’t have to play by those rules.”

Connors is a culture journalist in L.A. She covers books, food, entertainment and offbeat Los Angeles. She’s currently at work on a book of essays about tourism in all its forms.



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10 best books to read in August 2026: fresh releases from Jill Lepore, Claudia Rankin and more

Reading List

10 books for your August reading list

If you buy books linked on our site, The Times may earn a commission from Bookshop.org, whose fees support independent bookstores.

If your summer could use a little energy boost, forget the complicated smoothie — turn to one of these fresh book releases instead. From fast-paced World War II history to a slow-burn rescue in rural Wyoming, along with an art-world mystery and a punchy look at modern America, you’ll find something to galvanize your bedside book stack. Happy reading!

FICTION:

'Appraisals' by Claire Boyles

Appraisals: A Novel
By Claire Boyles
W. W. Norton: 288 pp., $30
(Aug. 4)

While Boyles’ debut novel ostensibly follows the fate of an Eastern Colorado family farm, its deeper purpose involves showing how dire water resources are for all agricultural endeavors in the region. Maggie and her husband Fish have inherited their land from her grandparents, but they and their teenage daughter Ozzie all know that without irrigation, even defeating big development plans won’t make much of a difference to locals.

'The Seekers of Deer Creek' by Thao Thai

The Seekers of Deer Creek: A Novel
By Thao Thai
Mariner Books: 320 pp., $30
(Aug. 4)

Vietnamese American sisters Vivi and Calla are also a curator and an artist. When their father dies and leaves behind a sketch that might be the work of renowned Vietnamese painter K.P. Lý, the siblings embark on a quest to find out whether Lý had connections to their family. Along the way they reexamine their difficult upbringing and find new ways to communicate that matter more than any artwork.

'Etna' by Paul Yoon

Etna: A Novel
By Paul Yoon
Scribner: 208 pp., $28
(Aug. 4)

Anyone who has seen “The Odyssey” with Matt Damon or is anticipating “Heart of the Beast” with Brad Pitt (about a veteran and his war dog), should pick up Yoon’s remarkable tale of a combat survivor in an alternate present who happens to be a former military dog named Etna. His adventures traversing a broken land of haunted people and animals may be less the stuff of future myth and more about trauma, but Yoon brilliantly creates voices for human and canine that make both more whole.

'A Tender Age' by Chang-Rae Lee

A Tender Age: A Novel
By Chang-Rae Lee
Riverhead: 368 pp., $30
(Aug. 11)

Jeon-Gi, known as J-G, is a relatively happy 10-year-old in 1976, until a neighbor’s attack on him fuels his own violent ideas. Although he gets a relatively easy sentence after threatening a classmate, J-G’s parents decide to send him to a Christian summer camp. Incidents there that might be sweet nostalgia for other kids only remind him of how different and lonely he feels inside. However, it’s J-G’s adult reason for sharing his experience that hits home.

'Sunrise' by Tea Obreht

Sunrise: A Novel
By Téa Obreht
Random House: 368 pp., $29
(Aug. 11)

Many, so so many, historical novels seek to tie a contemporary protagonist to a long-ago event or story; so so many fail to make the connections mean anything. That’s why Obreht’s superb and fascinating new book should earn a place on your 2026 reading list: She not only meaningfully connects the stories of a stranded young woman, an early-20th-century gunslinger, and a historical reenactor, but manages to make them illuminate each other.

NONFICTION:

'Triage' by Claudia Rankine

Triage
By Claudia Rankine
Graywolf: 192 pp., $28
(Aug. 4)

The book’s epigraph says a great deal: “Any attempt to name and describe our lives will always seem unstable because all language is a form of triage.” Rankine’s new attempt at triage focuses on her long friendship with a person identified only as “the theorist.” Anecdotes and analysis are interspersed with photos of all sorts of sofas and couches, calling into question ideas about where and how we find respite and support — or not.

'Your Fellow Americans' by Peter Santenello

Your Fellow Americans: Dispatches Across the Country We Call Home
By Peter Santenello
Simon & Schuster: 336 pp., $30
(Aug. 4)

Santenello has over 4 million subscribers on YouTube, where he posts videos about every kind of place in America — rich and poor, renowned and hidden, busy and abandoned. Love or hate the author’s self-described nonpartisan approach, you’ll find this book surprising, particularly as it reveals how geography, climate and infrastructure affect community and communication. Think Anthony Bourdain crossed with Michael Moore.

'Empire of Ashes' by James M. Scott

Empire of Ashes: Truman, Hirohito, and the Descent into Total War
By James M. Scott
W. W. Norton & Co.: 528 pp., $42
(Aug. 4)

Historian Scott (“Black Snow”) creates a propulsive read about the last days of World War II, in which America’s development of the atomic bomb pushed against Japan’s aggressive majority, with tragic results that many — including the author — believe necessary. The contrast between President Harry S. Truman, who had been in office for a matter of weeks, and Emperor Hirohito, whose military seemed unstoppable, remains shocking.

'The People's Historian' by Dave Zirin

The People’s Historian: The Outsized Life of Howard Zinn
By Dave Zirin
Dutton: 320 pp., $33
(Aug. 4)

Recently a friend showed me a list of books recommended by a pundit and asked which one to read first. Without hesitation I told her she should pick up “A People’s History of the United States” by Howard Zinn, first published in 1980 and still the most comprehensive remedial tonic to received wisdom I know. Zirin’s lively biography of this activist should remind everyone that history isn’t just about facts and figures but also context and compassion.

'The Rise and Fall of the Artificial State' by Jill Lepore

The Rise and Fall of the Artificial State
By Jill Lepore
Liveright Publishing Corp.: 336 pp., $30
(Aug. 25)

Hannah Arendt, one of the 20th century’s defining political thinkers, posited that modern life was making “being human superfluous”; her learned successor Lepore warns that our present bears out that idea. One day scholars will teach Lepore’s work alongside Arendt’s, seeing that Lepore interrogates not simply a modern moment, but traces our current machine age back to the 17th-century conceit for artifice as improvement. According to her, the way out is to get back to nature. Meet you in the woods.

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Man convicted in terrorism trial over the 2022 stabbing of author Salman Rushdie

A man was convicted Wednesday of federal terrorism charges in the 2022 stabbing of Salman Rushdie, the author who has faced a decades-old death threat over his novel “The Satanic Verses.”

A jury found Hadi Matar guilty of all the charges against him, including engaging in an act of transnational terrorism.

A message seeking comment was sent to Matar’s attorneys.

Matar, 28, is already serving a 25-year New York state prison sentence on an attempted murder conviction in the August 2022 attack on an amphitheater stage. The federal conviction carries a potential life sentence.

Rushdie, who was about to speak on writers’ safety when he was attacked, was slashed 15 times in front of a stunned audience. He was gravely wounded and lost the sight in his right eye.

Matar’s defense: No evidence of his state of mind

Prosecutors asserted that Matar was motivated by the late Iranian Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini ’s 1989 call for Rushdie’s death because of “The Satanic Verses.” Defense lawyer Nathaniel Barone countered that the government had no proof of what was in Matar’s head.

Matar himself declined to testify. Rushdie did, telling jurors: “I can’t say what his ambitions or his aim was, but the wounds were dispersed across my body.”

Rushdie won Britain’s prestigious Booker Prize for his 1981 novel “Midnight’s Children,” about his native India. “The Satanic Verses,” a novel of magical realism about the lives and dreams of two actors who survive a plane explosion, followed in 1988.

It drew critical acclaim in the United Kingdom but engendered protests around the Muslim world over what some believers saw as blasphemous suggestions about Islam’s Prophet Muhammad, particularly in a dream sequence. In the ensuing years, at least 45 people have been killed in riots over the book, a Japanese translator was stabbed to death, an Italian translator was attacked and survived, and the book’s Norwegian publisher survived a shooting.

Rushdie, who was born into a Muslim family, has said the dream sequence was just that. But he went into hiding for years, gradually emerging after Iran’s government distanced itself in 1998 from Khomeini’s fatwa, or religious edict.

“For two decades or more, I led a public life without a hint of trouble,” Rushdie testified at the trial in Buffalo, N.Y.

Yet the fatwa was never rescinded; indeed, Khomenei’s successor, the late Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, indicated in 2017 that it remained in effect. An Iranian foundation has offered a bounty of more than $3 million for killing Rushdie.

Prosecutors: Matar’s messages showed him zeroing in on Rushdie

Matar repeatedly broached the fatwa with contacts in messaging apps in 2021 and 2022, according to exhibits shown in court. The messages showed Matar fuming that he felt Rushdie had attacked Islam and, by surviving, emboldened others to insult the faith. Matar alluded to a 2006 comment along those lines by the late Hezbollah militant group leader Hassan Nasrallah, the messages showed.

Born in the U.S., Matar also holds citizenship in Lebanon, where Hezbollah is based. Prosecutors said that photos in Matar’s New Jersey bedroom and on his computer indicated his support for Hezbollah, which the U.S. has designated a terrorist organization.

Matar aimed to fulfill the fatwa and “wanted everyone to know he was doing this for Hezbollah,” Asst. U.S. Atty. Timothy Lynch said in an opening statement July 22.

The messages showed Matar initially talked about wanting to “expose” Rushdie, then about killing him. In a private note to himself, he wrote: “We need to kill him ASAP,” according to Lynch. The prosecutor said Matar framed the planned killing as part of what he considered a jihad, or holy war.

By spring 2022, the electronic chats showed, Matar wrote that he had discerned where Rushdie lived and was tracking his public appearances, eventually pointing out his scheduled August 2022 talk at the Chautauqua Institution, a western New York arts and intellectual center.

As Rushdie was being introduced, his attacker climbed on stage behind him, then stabbed him 15 times as the audience gasped. Spectators and another speaker, Henry Reese, scrambled to aid Rushdie. Law enforcement officers, assigned to the event, arrested the attacker — soon identified as Matar — after civilians restrained him.

Rushdie published a 2024 memoir about the attack, then returned to fiction with last year’s “The Eleventh Hour.” The author, who was knighted by Britain’s late Queen Elizabeth II, received a Dayton Literary Peace Prize lifetime achievement award in November.

Peltz writes for the Associated Press.

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Marlon James and Douglas Stuart are among Booker semifinalists

Booker Prize winners Marlon James and Douglas Stuart are in the running again for the prestigious fiction award, alongside Dublin gangs, dystopian science fiction and the New England characters of Pulitzer Prize laureate Elizabeth Strout.

Judges read 163 novels to come up with the 13 semifinalists announced Tuesday for the $66,000 Booker Prize, a list described by historian Mary Beard, head of the judging panel, as literary “dynamite.”

The list includes James’ “The Disappearers,” about a group of gay men in a hostile 1980s Jamaica; Stuart’s “ John of John,” a story of father-son secrets on a remote Scottish island; and Strout’s heartfelt small-town tale “The Things We Never Say.”

Author Marlon James in 2015.

Marlon James is semifinalist for the 2026 Booker Prize for fiction. In 2015, he became the first Jamaican writer to win the prestigious literary award.

(Neil Hall / Associated Press)

James won the Booker in 2015 for “A Brief History of Seven Killings,” and Stuart won in 2020 for “Shuggie Bain.” Strout’s “Oh William!” was a finalist in 2022. She won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 2009 for “Olive Kitteridge.”

They sit alongside lesser-known names on a Booker longlist that includes authors with roots in Britain, Ireland, Jamaica, Mexico, Turkey and the United States.

Three of those on the list are debut authors: Turkish American writer Kenan Orhan for the family history saga “The Renovation,” British author Rebecca Perry for the Medieval-to-modern tale “May We Feed the King” and Ireland’s Djamel White for “All Them Dogs,” a thriller set in the Dublin underworld.

White, at 28, is the youngest author in the running. The oldest is 81-year-old M. John Harrison, whose postapocalyptic tale “The End of Everything” is a rare science fiction novel to make the Booker list.

The other contenders are “The Shadow of the Object” by Chloe Aridjis, “Black Bag” by Luke Kennard, “The Vivisectors” by Missouri Williams, “Switzy” by Emma Cline, “Helen of Nowhere” by Makenna Goodman and Gwendoline Riley’s “The Palm House.”

Beard said the five jurors, who include Pulp frontman Jarvis Cocker and American novelist Patricia Lockwood, tried to look beyond the idea of a typical Booker winner — “slightly serious, about to be classic.” Instead, they chose novels that are “trying to expand the boundaries of how we can think about ourselves in completely different ways,”

“Sometimes they’re using humor, sometimes it’s pathos, sometimes there’s shock value,” Beard said. “They’re risk-takers. They are dynamite. They say, ‘Come on, try seeing it a different way.’ ”

Pulitzer Prize winner Elizabeth Strout.

Pulitzer Prize winner Elizabeth Strout is a semifinalist for the Booker Prize for fiction for her novel, “The Things We Never Say.”

(Leonardo Cendamo)

Founded in 1969, the Booker Prize has a reputation for transforming writers’ careers and is open to novels from any country published in the U.K. and Ireland. Last year’s winner was “Flesh” by Hungarian-British writer David Szalay.

The judges will announce six finalists on Sept. 22, and the winner will be revealed Nov. 9 at a ceremony in London.

Lawless writes for the Associated Press.

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Forget the average beach read — Claire Vaye Watkins’ wild desert story is what your stack is missing

If you get out to Joshua Tree and the night is clear, look up. You’ll see not just the stars, but a massive swath of the Milky Way. It’s a reminder that the vastness is always present, beyond the city’s bright lights. And once dawn comes, the desert performs the same magic: long horizons, unfamiliar landscapes, the creeping feeling that we are small, short-lived creatures on an immense ancient planet. No wonder some people find it unsettling.

On the Shelf

Yellow Pine

By Claire Vaye Watkins
Riverhead Books: 256 pages, $29

If you buy books linked on our site, The Times may earn a commission from Bookshop.org, whose fees support independent bookstores.

Not the characters in Claire Vaye Watkins’ new novel “Yellow Pine,” who embrace the desert in the extreme. They live at the far side of the Mojave Desert where California meets Nevada. Wherefore the pines, you ask? The book’s title is a wry joke — “Yellow Pine” is not a forest, not a tree. It’s a massive solar array slated to be built nearby in the Nevada desert. A ragtag crew of desert dwellers are hoping to stop it, or at least slow down the grinding wheels of capitalism that see the desert merely as an empty space for the taking.

Primary among them is Rose, a 30-something single mom who lives near the end of a very, very long dirt road in a cabin she calls Nothingness Flats. Rose works for an environmental nonprofit that has gone remote because it’s the pandemic; she often spirals at the state of the world. “Sometimes I think I can feel the planet just hemorrhaging under all this greed. Like it’s tectonic,” she laments.

Rampant environmental destruction notwithstanding, the novel kicks off with the joyous return of Miles, the guy who got away. He is an outdoor person, like Rose; has trouble fitting into societal norms, like Rose; and he is an ideal intellectual partner for her, bantering, well-read and ready to engage. Also, they have great sex.

Lest I portray this as a typical summer beach read, Watkins’ writing is in a special, different mode. Her latest books somehow cut past narrative traditions and portray plot and emotion more directly. Another novel might find Rose, after she decides she loves Miles so much that she wants to get pregnant, going to a doctor, getting tests, worrying about being almost 40 and what that means. Rose does none of that — she just suddenly deeply wants a baby, and that desire is vivid in the text. Overexplained storytelling is set aside for something that’s striking and vivid.

When I reached Watkins via Zoom to talk about the book, I asked her how she does it. “Partly it’s an intuition I have about what makes an interesting story,” Watkins says. “A story requires a lot of improbable decisions. Maybe they’re not great decisions, but the person doesn’t know that at the time.”

In “Yellow Pine,” Miles is not without some red flags. In my reviewer’s copy, I found myself scrawling “bad idea!” in the margin, trying to warn Rose about him. It gives the story some tension, and shows that our heroine isn’t perfect — she’s just doing her best under desert skies.

Rose lives in Tecopa, population 120, among people who’ve chosen the isolation, quietude, natural beauty and brutal conditions on purpose. Of the real-life people in these communities, Watkins says, “It’s really tough. The environment is extreme. There are no amenities. There’s no jobs. … I think there’s a refusenik quality to them.”

Nevertheless, some of them come together to try to forestall the installation of the solar array. They point out that “solar farm” is a misnomer because the land — an alluvial plane with Yucca colonies dating back hundreds of years, creosote rhizomatic rings even longer — will be scraped and fenced. What happens to the endangered desert tortoises is awful. These activists are trying every legal recourse and have set up a tiny camp at the edge of the property. Sweetly, and with little hope, they make a small community of people who understand each other and the desert landscape that others see as a blank space on the map.

“In California most of the biodiversity in the state is in the inland deserts, partly because a lot of the other ecosystems have been totally destroyed, you know? It’s a very alive place,” Watkins explains.

In “Yellow Pine,” Rose’s conviction that she should get pregnant grows to a point where she comes up with a wild scheme to make that happen. It is very funny, outsized and unexpected. It’s a small individual resistance to the impending destruction of the desert.

Watkins is very good at making a humorous turn at the end of thoughts, sentences, books. This is her fourth. Her debut, the short story collection “Battleborn” in 2012, set her on a trajectory of accolades; 2021’s “I Love You But I’ve Chosen Darkness,” was an L.A. Times book prize finalist. She is currently a professor of writing at UC Irvine.

“The thing I love about novels, writing them and reading them, is that it’s private thoughts,” Watkins says. “It’s this cool technology that we’ve come up with to deal with the fact that we don’t know what’s going on in each other’s heads and hearts and how painful that can be.”

She adds that a novelist’s job is to care about the reader. “There’s something really beautiful about, I’m going to do my very best with my part and then I give it to you, and I let it go and I trust you and I respect you,” she says. “I love the world when I’m writing and my books are like acts of love, partly because I really struggle. I’m not walking around loving my fellow man easily.”

When our Zoom began, she apologized for the noises outside — construction, dog walkers, gardeners. I couldn’t hear them at all, but I got the impression that those intrusions and distractions were weighing on her. “I feel like I have a very sensitive instrument,” she says. “I get a little agitated and the pace is really, really different.”

I had been expecting to reach her at an improbable desert outpost, like a Death Valley library with Wi-Fi, but instead reached her in Orange County. It’s for her job, and also as a part-time parent, much easier for amenities. It’s a busy town where there are lots of people, lots of businesses, lots of traffic, the hectic pace of modern life — but still, the desert has its pull. She splits her time between the two locales.

“Yellow Pine” is a testament to her beloved remote corner of the Mojave, its beauties, hardships and endangerments. The place has been an essential part of her creative process and project. “What we do for fun in Tecopa is like, watch the sky. That’s our entertainment, you know?” she says, reflecting on the long moments of silence that stretch out over the evenings. “And it’s like, ‘wow.’”

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The best Colson Whitehead books to read (and where to start)

Reading List

If you buy books linked on our site, The Times may earn a commission from Bookshop.org, whose fees support independent bookstores.

This month, “Cool Machine,” a riff on 1980s New York in the form of a tightly plotted crime novel, arrives from Colson Whitehead. It concludes his Harlem trilogy, they say. If you’d told readers two decades ago that Whitehead would become a bestselling crime novelist, they might have thought you were kidding. He started out writing innovative novels with such intellectual and stylistic punch that the MacArthur Foundation gave him a fellowship in 2002.

His written output is fun, fearless and fantastic. Where to start? Here’s a cheat sheet.

Colson Whitehead triptych 1

For N.Y. lovers

With “Harlem Shuffle,” Whitehead begins his crime trilogy in the 1960s in a furniture store with stylish midcentury stock whose owner, Ray Carney, is trying not to be a fence. Love the evocation of Harlem as a place with a cool interconnected community. Worry about that cousin who’s always trouble. The follow-up, “Crook Manifesto,” is set in the 1970s. All of New York City is at a nadir; Ray is on the straight and narrow, but needs an influx of cash (for Jackson Five tickets for his daughter). Then comes “Cool Machine,” secrets to be revealed when it hit shelves this week . And as a bonus, his essay collection “The Colossus of New York,” which is vivid, episodic and yet still a story: “Talking about New York is talking about the world.”

To break your heart

The novel “The Underground Railroad” comes from an imagined misunderstanding, logical for anyone who grew up riding subways: that the path to freedom for enslaved people that we call The Underground Railroad was in fact underground. In Whitehead’s hands, that imagining takes us through both time and place while making visceral the horrors of enslavement. The book won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize and was adapted by Barry Jenkins into a limited series.

In a rare feat, Whitehead won the Pulitzer Prize a second time for his novel “The Nickel Boys,” another work of historical fiction dealing with the devastating effects of American racism. Based on the true story of a reform school where Black boys went missing, the novel pairs the stories of two teens, one a troublemaker and the other caught up by mistake. Barack Obama called it “a necessary read.” Cleverly structured, it seemed difficult to adapt, but director RaMell Ross made it into a brilliant film.

Colson Whitehead triptych 2

To blow your mind

In Whitehead’s debut novel, the not-realistic “The Intuitionist,” a Black female elevator inspector faces powerful forces aligned against her. Inflected with Thomas Pynchon-like wordplay and situations, it’s both ambitious and funny. So is “John Henry Days,” mixing narrative forms while telling the story of a Black journalist around the year 2000 going to every press junket he can, unmaking the myth of John Henry all the while. And “Apex Hides the Hurt” is a comic novel about the conflicts that arise in a small town when they hire a name consultant for a possible rebranding.

To eat your mind

Just around the time they started staggering onto TV, Colson Whitehead published a zombie novel. “Zone One” is a smart take on the shuffling hordes and pandemic survivors who try to take Manhattan back.

Colson Whitehead triptych 3

To beat the odds

Whitehead, an enthusiastic amateur poker player, wrote the nonfiction book “The Noble Hustle” about his entry into the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas. It was a luxurious time in media, circa 2011, when ESPN’s Grantland paid his $10,000 entry fee and said he could keep his winnings. The book, expanded from what he wrote for them, includes his training, pending divorce, joking asides and playing for high stakes.

To take to the beach

“Sag Harbor,” set in the mostly Black, affluent beach community in the Hamptons, is the closest Whitehead has come to writing a coming-of-age story. Taking place during the summer of 1985, Benji and his teenage friends banter about culture and get their first taste of freedom.

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‘Little House on the Prairie’: A sentimental take on Laura Ingalls’ novel

“Little House on the Prairie” is the third television adaptation to bear the name of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s 1935 autobiographical novel of life on the Kansas plains in 1869 to 1870. The first, the Michael Landon television series that debuted in 1974, set in Walnut Grove, Minn., is really based on Wilder’s subsequent volume, “On the Banks of Plum Creek,” while a 2005 miniseries, shown as part of “The Wonderful World of Disney,” was generally faithful to the letter and spirit of the text. The record shows that I liked it.

The new “Little House,” created by Rebecca Sonnenshine and streaming on Netflix, is fairly faithful to its spirit, and less so to its letter. At its center is the Ingalls family: father Charles (Luke Bracey), or Pa; mother Caroline (Crosby Fitzgerald), or Ma; serious older sister Mary (Skywalker Hughes), and adventurous Laura (Alice Halsey), whose story this is. They are heading out to Kansas to what they imagine is free land, though they will have a thing or two coming on that account. “This will be our new forever,” says Laura, who doesn’t yet know that her future will be in Minnesota.

To be sure, the character relations remain essentially the same. Pa will play his fiddle. Laura and Mary will dance, when not getting in one another’s hair, or sulking. There will be singing, frequently. Major episodes from the book — when Jack got lost, (Jack is the dog, and he will be found), the incident of Mr. Scott (Maclean Fish) down the well, Christmas, the one about malaria, and all the business of building the eponymous log house — are accounted for, if in some cases expanded upon or altered. So extensive are its innovations that, although I am going to point out certain departures from or additions to the text, because I am that sort of pedant, it may be best just to regard this “Little House” as an original thing, a variation on a theme by Laura Ingalls Wilder, or a reboot of the television show.

Some touches are drawn from Wilder’s own history. Her mother was a teacher before she married Charles Ingalls; her maternal grandfather died from drowning. The black cowboy hat Laura sports is straight from a photograph of Wilder as a girl. Laura is made a sort of mini-Scheherazade to foreshadow the writer she’ll become (though she’ll also ask, “What am I ever going to need in a book?”). Baby Carrie, in the novel from the start, is born, as she really was, in Kansas, meaning that Ma is pregnant through much of the season — a condition that may have seemed too complicated for a 1935 children’s book, but which adds new strains of drama to the miniseries. It also introduces a theme in which Ma, who has lost “so many” babies, is trying to give Pa a boy, though he is not the sort to be disappointed in another girl.

Also new to the story is Independence, Kan., itself, which in the book is an offstage place to which Pa will sometimes go to fetch necessities, disappearing from the story until he returns. Here it’s nearby — a nicely realized little movie town to which the whole family will sometimes repair, to shop, raise a church or join in a Founders Day celebration. It’s dominated by a less than transparent booster, Eli James (Michael Hough), who comes with a self-important wife, Jemma (Mary Holland), and a pair of teenage twin girls who might be described as all dressed up with nowhere to go.

Notably, the series’ treatment of Native Americans feels intended to rectify, or at least deepen, their portrayal in the book — naive or romantic, maybe, though not, I’d argue, negative — with added native characters and discussions regarding the land and treaties and such. While Ma frets about the natives in the neighborhood, for no reason she can articulate — one juvenile delinquent steals her cherished china figurine, but we understand that there are social causes for his behavior — Pa, who has built his house unwittingly on an Osage trail, has sympathy and perspective. (Ma will soften considerably, because this is that kind of show.)

It’s not an issue for guileless, outgoing Laura, who acquires an Indigenous best friend, Good Eagle (Wren Zhawenim Gotts). Her father, Mitchell (Meegwun Fairbrother) will be a friend to Pa and her mother, White Sun (Alyssa Wapanatâhk), will provide a skeptical counterpoint to Ma. Mission-educated, they live in a nice house with a crucifix on the wall and shelves full of literature.

Most every character gets some backstory, some traumatic. The Ingalls left Wisconsin under a cloud. (“Why didn’t anyone come to say goodbye?” wonders Laura.) (Still, it’s good to see Martin Donovan as Pa’s angry father in a fever-induced flashback.) Ma married Pa, her social inferior, against her mother’s wishes. Caleb (Kowen Cadorath), a new character who works for another new character, Emily Henderson (Barrett Doss), at the general store, was abandoned as a small child. Echoing the character played by Victor French in the TV show, Mr. Edwards (Warren Christie) has a drinking problem, brought on by a family tragedy. (In the book he describes himself as a “wildcat from Tennessee”; here he has wild … cats.) Much of the time, someone is sad. Halsey and Hughes, who are very watchable throughout, are especially good with worried looks, and Fitzgerald, perhaps the series’ MVP, is an artist when it comes to expressing concern.

Sonnenshine also invents tentative romances between Edwards and Lacey Aubert (Rebecca Amzallag), who is French, independent, runs the saloon, I guess you’d call it, dresses in black and wears trousers; between Emily and Dr. Tann (Jocko Sims), who is in the book, but much more established here; and between Mary and Caleb. All these storylines sacrifice the centrality of Laura as a character and observer and makes this “Little House” less a story of a family out on its own than a family in the context of community. (That’s for later volumes in Wilder’s nine-book saga.)

It’s very sentimental — which the novel, with its matter-of-fact, if sensually evocative prose, and its child’s-eye view, is not. The dialogue here is ripe with sampler sentiments and weighted with meaning (“Hope is everything,” “What if this is where we finally become who we’re meant to be,” “Life can get away from you if you don’t speak your heart.”) Much of the added material would have easily fit the TV series — temperamentally, it’s very much a case of late 20th century broadcast television — which to some may be a recommendation.

It’s pretty, often very pretty, to look at. The flat expanse of Winnipeg, Canada, where it was filmed, makes a good topographical match for east Kansas. Prairies are prairies.

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10 books to read in July: New releases from Colson Whitehead and more

Reading List

10 books for your July reading list

If you buy books linked on our site, The Times may earn a commission from Bookshop.org, whose fees support independent bookstores.

New reads abound for your vacation tote throughout the weeks of July, with fiction picks featuring a Carnival cruise casualty, a highly entertaining jewel heist at the Waldorf-Astoria, and a Soviet-era madcap adventure. In nonfiction, authors consider how we define wild places, how we pigeonhole the aging, and how languages live or die. Happy reading!

FICTION:

A REAL ANIMAL by Emeline Atwood

A Real Animal: A Novel
By Emeline Atwood
Catapult: 368 pp., $29
(July 7)
After surviving a sexual assault, narrator Lucy stalks her college campus as a leopard. Don’t spend too much time worrying about whether this transformation is real, or not; Lucy’s knowledge of her fierceness is the point, a fierceness she employs as she struggles to negotiate her independence from parents who wish she’d come home to recover and men who offer up their desires and ignore hers. It’s an astonishing debut with a compelling voice.

MAN OVERBOARD! by Kathleen Rooney

Man Overboard!: A Novel
By Kathleen Rooney
Gallery Books: 208 pp., $27
(July 7)
Readers expecting something akin to Rooney’s wondrous previous novel, “Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk,” should remember that that book followed “Cher Ami “ and “Major Whittlesey,” a story about a pigeon and a World War I Army officer. In other words, Rooney doesn’t repeat herself, and in “Man Overboard!” she’s concocted a hilarious adventure tale of a man floating in the Gulf of Mexico, adrift with himself, his thoughts, and a few sea creatures.

ASTRONAUT! by Oana Aristides

Astronaut!: A Novel
By Oana Aristides
W. W. Norton: 272 pp., $28
(July 14)
Imagine a dystopia set neither in the future nor in fantasy; that’s the 1989 Romania 7-year-old Lia inhabits, its adults living in fear of Communist dictator Nicolae Ceauşescu, its infrastructure strained by deprivation, and its reality so scrambled that calling an explorer an “astronaut” instead of “cosmonaut” risks punishment. When Lia sets out to buy her mother a birthday gift, she sets in motion a series of weirdly probable yet totally weird events.

CITY OF WIDOWS by Nadia Hashimi

City of Widows: A Novel
By Nadia Hashimi
William Morrow: 432 pp., $32
(July 28)
During the two decades of American occupation, Afghanistan experienced a sort of peace, one in which women could be educated, work as professionals, and even serve in the military. When the U.S. left in 2020, those same women found themselves — regardless of their individual status — subject to Taliban restrictions that deny differences in gender, desire and ambition. Hashimi (Sparks Like Stars”) shows how desperate and daring the women become.

COOL MACHINE by Colson Whitehead

Cool Machine: A Novel
By Colson Whitehead
Doubleday: 368 pp., $30
(July 21)
First “Harlem Shuffle,” then “Crook Manifesto,” and now, “Cool Machine,” the highly anticipated “Harlem Trilogy” conclusion from the two-time Pulitzer Prize-winning Whitehead. The inimitable Ray Carney, who started out as a minor criminal, is now Sterling Furniture’s “Northeast Regional Dealer of the Month,” a respected businessman. It’s the mid-1980s, and when Ray’s beloved wife Elizabeth gets turned down for a small-business loan, he takes matters into his own hands, in his own former ways.

NONFICTION:

HOW TO KILL A LANGUAGE by Sophia Smith Galer

How to Kill a Language: Power, Resistance, and the Race to Save Our Words
By Sophia Smith Galer
Crown: 304 pp., $33
(July 7)
Smith Galer’s nonna spoke an Italian she called “dialet”; her mother spoke “dialet” and English; Smith Galer herself speaks only English. What do we lose, the author asks, when a language dies? The answers she found are powerful, like an enzyme to treat HIV that was found in a tree that was discovered because a researcher spoke Samoan. Unsurprisingly, she also found that language death often corresponds to ecological and cultural devastation.

THE EARTH SAID REMEMBER ME by Jason Dove Mark

The Earth Said Remember Me: How to Revive Our Memories and Restore Our Planet
By Jason Dove Mark
W. W. Norton: 224 pp., $25
(July 14)
Perhaps art will be the thing that preserves the environment, even if humans can’t save it. “Go outside. Bear witness. Make a record. Pass it on,” writes Mark in this eloquent, impassioned plea for us all to remain involved in environmental action. The more we appreciate the natural world, the more we’ll want to care for it, share it with others, and help future generations understand how some changes are natural and not all are inevitable.

AGING OUT by Lucy Schiller

Aging Out: An Exploration of Caregiving, Community, and How Americans Grow Old
By Lucy Schiller
Flatiron Books: 272 pp., $30
(July 14)
Services for the elderly range from luxury assisted-living facilities to special digital devices meant to bypass phone scams, but as Schiller explains, these things not only commodify a natural life passage — they separate older people from their natural communities. The author was inspired to investigate our country’s aging population when she cared for a grandmother who died from COVID; the book weaves the personal with the political in a meaningful way.

DAD, LOVE, ME: A Memoir by Matthew Quick

(Avid Reader Press/Simon & Schust)

Dad, Love, Me: A Memoir
By Matthew Quick
Avid Reader Press: 320 pp., $30
(July 21)
Novelist Quick (“The Silver Linings Playbook”) turns to memoir in recounting his contentious relationship with his father, whom he’s losing to dementia. While the author has had big highs (like the movie adaptation of “Playbook”), he’s also experienced deep lows, including alcoholism and severe creative block. Somehow, through recovery (which he credits to Jungian therapy), he affords both his imperfect, ailing parent and himself grace.

THE SAVAGE LANDSCAPE by Cal Fly

The Savage Landscape: How We Made the Wilderness
By Cal Flyn
Viking: 448 pp., $35
(July 28)
In “Downton Abbey”, the Dowager Duchess of Grantham starchily asked “What is a ‘weekend?’” In this book, journalist Cal Flyn asks — more affably, but with equal intensity — “What is a wilderness?” Her answer: Depends on your perspective. In other words, nearly every place on Earth teems with life. It’s only humans who have attached words like “wild” and “unexplored” to regions where they feel uncertain, afraid, and even awed.

Patrick is a freelance critic and author of the memoir “Life B.”

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How reading Toni Morrison in chronological order rewrites U.S. history

About six months after Toni Morrison died in the summer of 2019, Literary Cleveland began hosting annual community tribute parties on the Nobel Prize-winning author’s birthday, Feb. 18. Lorain, Ohio — a suburb of Cleveland — is where Morrison was born and raised, and where she set several of her novels. During these gatherings, participants were prompted to read aloud from their favorite Morrison works, and share why they savored those particular lines.

Over time, these meetings began to feel increasingly intimate, even “sacred,” according to Literary Cleveland’s Executive Director Matt Weinkam, which prompted him, in tandem with Ohio Humanities head Rebecca Asmo, to brainstorm how to take their program state-wide. “This is Toni Morrison, one of our greatest writers,” Weinkam recalls thinking. “We needed to do something bigger.”

At the time, Weinkam and Osmo were also trying to figure out how to commemorate America’s semiquincentennial. Weinkam was listening to Morrison’s entire oeuvre on audio and realized that when you organize the 11 novels in a certain order, “they tell the history of America.” So how, he thought, “could you use the literature of Toni Morrison to view our country through a different lens — through her lens?” He says they knew honoring Morrison as a consequential figure not just in literature but also in the context of American history would be central to Ohio’s celebration of the semiquincentennial.

Book covers of "A Mercy," "Beloved," "Sula" and "Jazz" by Toni Morrison

“[But] only as the project was coming together did we strike on the fact that her novels trace American history from ‘A Mercy,’ set in 1690, through ‘God Help the Child,’ in the 2010s. Not only does her work re-center African Americans in the story of our country, it also tackles major events from our founding, through slavery, to the impact of Jim Crow, to the great migration and beyond.”

In the months leading up to the 250th anniversary, they decided to bring the Morrison salons they were curating in Cleveland to all 88 Ohio counties. For assistance they connected with Britt Lovett, a strategist, community leader and fellow Morrison acolyte.

“People say that reading Toni Morrison is challenging,” says Lovett. “[But] reading Toni Morrison is like my grandmother speaking to me.”

In February, on what would have been Morrison’s 95th birthday, they officially launched “Beloved: Ohio Celebrates Toni Morrison,” a yearlong homage including readings, workshops, lectures and a monthly book club that meets on Sunday evenings. They intentionally programmed the book club so that it would take readers through our U.S. history utilizing Morrison’s vision: Weinkam proposed reading Morrison’s novels in the order in which they are set rather than the order in which they were published. “That simple shift,” says Lovett, “changed everything.”

They began with “A Mercy,” one of Morrison’s later novels, published in 2008 — which is set in the late 17th century, before slavery took hold and the country became “racialized.” Next came “Beloved,” then “Sula” and “Jazz.” “Experiencing the novels this way reveals how Morrison traced generations of Black American life across centuries of our nation’s history,” Lovett says. “What may appear to be individual stories become part of a larger narrative about memory, freedom, family, belonging and the ongoing project of America itself.”

For Morrison, writing fiction was a form of “literary archaeology,” excavating history, and how the past hovers over the present. Her quest was what she termed “rememory.”

Eddie S. Glaude Jr. is a Princeton professor and author of “America, U.S.A.: How Race Shadows the Nation’s Anniversaries” who has studied Morrison. “She understood the ongoing national effort to disremember — this startling combination of dismembering and remembering — to protect the innocence of America,” Glaude says. “Instead, her novels relentlessly expose the horror and the magisterial efforts on the part of ordinary people to overcome them. In doing so, she takes us to the beating heart of this fragile experiment — something we desperately need to remember in this 250th year of the country.”

"The Black Book." Foreword and preface by Toni Morrison

In 1973, as an editor at Random House, Morrison published and collaborated with collectors in compiling “The Black Book,” a seminal volume that tells the story of the African American experience in America in the form of an encyclopedic scrapbook that spans from 1619 through the 1940s. There is no narrator, and this is intentional. The visuals — newspaper clippings, slave auction notices, patent applications by Black inventors, photographs, sheet music, relate their own powerful story “Black life as lived” — great joy juxtaposed with the tragedy and legacy of slavery. From her work on that groundbreaking assemblage emerged the idea for “Beloved,” which won the 1988 Pulitzer Prize for fiction.

For the record:

2:12 p.m. July 2, 2026An earlier version of this article misattributed Toni Morrison quotes about writing to “think the unthinkable” and be “relentlessly black” with no deference to the “white gaze” to Namwali Serpell.

Nearly seven years after Morrison’s death at 88, we are living in a golden age of Morrisonia. Three extraordinary new books, published this year, shed light on the brilliance and complexity of Morrison’s life and work, and place her as an American eminence, a visionary who saw fiction as a means through which to recast her country’s story. “On Morrison” by Namwali Serpell; “Toni at Random: The Iconic Writer’s Legendary Editorship” by Dana Williams; and a posthumously published collection of Morrison essays entitled “Language as Liberation: Reflections on the American Canon.” Serpell writes that “Morrison has shaped the way we think about everything.” Morrison herself said that she wrote to “think the unthinkable,” to write novels that were “relentlessly black,” giving no deference to the “white gaze.” Her refusal to sugarcoat the interior and exterior lives of her characters, whether enslaved or traumatized by the past — by events in American history — was purposeful.

“You’re confronted with horrific acts of violence,” Serpell says. “Not to present it in spectacular fashion, nor to feed any kind of voyeuristic or prurient interest on the part of the audience, but to use quiet language — beautiful language — in order to actually get us to step back and think about why this violence is happening and where it’s coming from.”

In that way, Morrison’s work was always a radical experiment — and is perhaps why, according to the American Library Assn., “The Bluest Eye” her 1970 debut — continues to be one of the most frequently “challenged” books in the U.S. “Beloved” runs a close second. But this also is among the reasons her books are considered must-reads in the classroom, and contemporary classics.

John Freeman is an executive editor at Knopf who oversees Morrison’s publishing program. “Her books persist today because they beckon us doubly: they invite us to look clearly at what America is, to come to grips with the fantasies and shadows developed to avoid this awful knowledge,” Freeman says. “They also tell us one phenomenal love story after another.”

Through her book club, cultural icon Oprah Winfrey introduced millions of readers to Morrison by featuring four of the author’s novels. “From ‘The Bluest Eye’ through ‘Beloved,’ ‘Jazz,’ ‘Home,’ ‘A Mercy’ and ‘Love,’ Morrison’s words have helped me become more of myself,” Winfrey says. “She understands the lives of Black women like no one else I’ve ever read. Reading her, I’ve often felt seen in places I didn’t know how to name.”

Book covers for "On Morrison" by Namwali Serpell, "Language as Liberation, "Toni at Random" by Dana A. Williams

(HarperCollins; Penguin Random House)

In Morrison’s essays, lectures and other public comments — including as a professor at Princeton for nearly two decades — she occupied the role of public intellectual, always teaching us how to view America’s evolution as a country, and how it became “racialized.”

In a Granta interview conducted late in her life, she challenged the interviewer to consider that the concept of “whiteness” is peculiarly American: “Think about it, “ she prompted. “If you come to this country from Germany or Russia, or anywhere you got off the boat, got on the land, in order to become an American, you have to be white. That’s the quality that brings the country, its people together — having a non-white population. My concept is that if you were from Sweden, you were Swedish. You didn’t have to say, ‘I’m a white Swede.’ You know what I’m saying?”

As we prepare to celebrate America’s 250th, it’s useful to reflect on how Morrison viewed the intersection of fiction, history and memory, how the mission of her fiction was to uncover truths omitted by the standard historical records and history’s “sages.” In her 1987 essay, “The Site of Memory,” she utilized a river as a metaphor to discuss how imagination excavates forgotten histories and people. “All water,” she wrote, “has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was. Writers are like that: remembering where we were.”

Haber is a writer, editor and publishing strategist, and co-founder of the Ink Book Club on Substack. She was director of Oprah’s Book Club and books editor for O, the Oprah Magazine.

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Eddie Huang: On new novel ‘Come Undone,’ Anthony Bourdain and Baohaus

On the Shelf

Come Undone: A Novel

By Eddie Huang
One World: 240 pages, $29

If you buy books linked on our site, The Times may earn a commission from Bookshop.org, whose fees support independent bookstores.

Eddie Huang has never felt lighter. Last month, after his debut novel, “Come Undone,” finally released, something shifted.

“I have a family. I feel healed,” he said over coffee and short ribs in Santa Monica hours ahead of a live talk with Ottessa Moshfegh, the bestselling, critically acclaimed author of Huang’s favorite book, “My Year of Rest and Relaxation.”

“People always write me off as a personality or a multi-hyphenate,” he said. “It’s a nice way of saying I’m not really good at anything. But I didn’t have any of that this time.” He leaned forward, serious. “I have to be honest. I do think the Knicks are a big, big part of it.”

His beloved Knicks winning the championship, he said, kept him from spiraling over the book. In person, Huang subdues his ironic braggadocio with polite eye contact and rolling belly laughs at his own jokes. For years, audiences have watched Huang resist whatever box you put him in. His particular brand of cultural fluency — a rapid-fire mix of food, fashion, basketball, politics and pop culture — is what made the “Gua Bao Bad Boy impossible to categorize.

For most of his career, Huang has seemed constitutionally incapable of standing still. Chef. Memoirist. TV host. Filmmaker. Lawyer. Comic. Podcaster. His first book, “Fresh Off the Boat,” became the longest-running network sitcom centered on an Asian American family, even as Huang publicly distanced himself from the show. Since leaving post-fires L.A. for New York, he’s reopened Baohaus — returning to the kitchen that built his career. Waiting for him at home after the book tour is his wife, Natashia Perrotti, and their 2-year-old son.

Now there’s “Come Undone,” fiction that Huang called his most honest — and vulnerable — work to date.

“It’s sort of this next-gen auto fiction type thing that is creating its own rules,” Moshfegh said ahead of their Q-and-A. “It made me think about my own appreciation for the experience of male heterosexuality and how much it’s been commodified.”

The book follows Hubie, a globe-trotting food-show host drifting through Chateau Marmont, Madeo, Nobu and other “dirtbag L.A” (as Huang coins) spots. He meets Janine, his equal in appetite and id, sending him into a tailspin of yearning and loops of Sky Ferreira’s “Everything Is Embarrassing” on sadboi walks. The “two walking red flags” decide to try to make it work.

"Come Undone: A Novel" by Eddie Huang

Huang called the novel an “autofictional riddle.” The puzzle isn’t especially difficult if you’ve followed his relationship with Perrotti, who co-hosts their podcast, “Canal Street Dreams.” Marrying a writer, she’s learned, often means finding out what he feels by reading it. “We’ll get into a fight,” she said, “and I’ll wake up to a Substack article about it.”

It’s also part of the private life she’s since conceded. “It’s annoying,” she added. “But now I can read it, and maybe understand him a little bit better. He’s trying to communicate through the writing, like sending somebody a song and saying, ‘I want you to listen to these lyrics.’”

The novel goes further, drawing from experiences the couple has never discussed publicly. In the novel, Hubie and Janine’s relationship pivots after an ectopic pregnancy ends in loss. Perrotti said the scene is fictionalized but mirrors a similar experience they had early in their own relationship.

“It brought us closer together,” she said. “It was the catalyst for us realizing we were serious.”

Before Huang could finish the book, the life he was writing about had to fall apart. “This book was very much about breaking up with your family to start your own,” he said. “There was a lot of anger in the book that had not been resolved.”

By the end of 2024, Huang had stopped speaking to his mother. The break followed what he described as a blowup at a Cheesecake Factory. It also unlocked the ending he’d been chasing.

Eddie Huang.

Eddie Huang.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Looking back, Huang thinks the earlier versions failed because he was still arguing with her. He’s still trying, in some way, to communicate with her through his writing. “If there’s one person I wish would read the book,” he said, “it would be my mom.”

There were other chapters he had to close the book on, mainly Hollywood. His foray into fiction coincided with the writers’ strike, drying up all his income and future projects. That same year, he became a father. “I had to accept and realize that my value was not in making money,” he said. “Because for three years, I couldn’t.”

He recalled a particular low point researching life insurance policies. “I had to rebuild my whole self. Really love myself despite not being able to offer anybody anything.”

That new certainty didn’t make Huang any less willing to pick fights. Last year, as his documentary “Vice Is Broke” — an autopsy of the media company behind “Huang’s World” and its eventual bankruptcy — awaited release, Huang said distributor Mubi shelved the film after he boycotted the company over Sequoia Capital’s investment in an Israeli defense technology startup. (Mubi denied this and said it still planned to distribute the film.)

The ghost of Vice still lingers in today’s media ecosystem in what he called our “era of cartel journalism:” creators navigating a world of blurred incentives and corporate interests. He traced this instinct to challenge those systems back to Socrates’ “gadfly” — the person whose job was to annoy power. “As a writer, you should be challenging people,” he said. “If your memoir can be turned into a sitcom, it probably wasn’t challenging.”

Eddie Huang.

Eddie Huang.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

After the 2025 L.A. fires drove his new family back to New York, Huang went back to cooking. He worked pop-ups, reopened Baohaus and found himself alongside line cooks half his age. In March 2025, he rewrote the novel in five days. That same month “was the first month I didn’t overdraft my credit card,” he said, with the majority of his income today coming from the restaurant. It’s allowed him to make films, write books and walk away from deals he doesn’t believe in. “Being a chef is the anchor that allows me to maintain my artistic integrity.”

For years, comparisons to Anthony Bourdain followed Huang everywhere. The two eventually became friends.

“He was one of the few people who was as advertised,” Huang said. “Nicer and more generous in person. And wounded.”

Bourdain is the only real person who appears in “Come Undone” under his own name.

When Huang mentions him, he stops talking. He covers his face. Tears come.

“I don’t believe in God,” he said, “but I asked the universe why for many, many years.”

Bourdain’s suicide, he said, was one of the reasons he walked away from “Huang’s World” in 2018. At the time, few people understood why. “It was Tony. It was family. It was everything.”

Eddie Huang.

Eddie Huang.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Now, looking back, Huang thinks he was writing “Come Undone” toward a different ending than the one he’d imagined.

“This book is a guy saying, ‘I don’t want to be like my biological father,’” he said. “And, in the most respectful, loving way, I don’t want to go out like Tony.”

He paused. “I needed to name the sadness in me. I needed to allow myself to be loved.”

Huang is already writing another memoir about getting back into the kitchen. Still, he said, these days, he’d rather write fiction.

Rudi, an L.A. native, is a freelance art and culture writer. She’s at work on her debut novel about a stuttering student journalist.

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He’s wine country’s reluctant casino mogul. His new novel is rich with Native history

On the Shelf

The Last Human Bear

By Greg Sarris
Heyday Books: 384 pages, $30

If you buy books linked on our site, The Times may earn a commission from Bookshop.org, whose fees support independent bookstores.

Before her death in 1993, Mabel McKay — one of the last living dreamers of the Pomo Indian people — shared a prophecy while driving through the Sonoma hills. One day, this paradise would burn.

“Everything is going to go dry. Everything will burn. That’s my latest vision,” she said, gesturing to the idyllic landscape.

Startled, writer Greg Sarris asked what could be done to stop it.

“You live the best way you know how,” McKay replied.

Since her passing, Sonoma County experienced the most destructive wildfires in California history in 2017, only for another, more destructive fire to surpass it a year later. “She always used to say, ‘Whether you believe it or not, it’s true,’” Sarris recalls.

McKay and her visions are the inspiration behind Sarris’ latest work. His first novel in 28 years, “The Last Human Bear,” is loosely based on the spiritual leader McKay, whose wisdom and companionship served as a refuge to Sarris during a tumultuous childhood in Sonoma County.

A reluctant casino mogul

On a Monday morning in California, Sarris sits in his sleek office at the Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria in Rohnert Park. Sarris, 74, has served as chairman of the Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria for more than 30 years. In his office, diplomas and academic certificates crowd the walls. A framed poster for the 2023 film “Joan Baez: I Am a Noise” hangs nearby — she’s a close friend. Behind him, an American flag ripples in the distance outside the window, blurred by the summer heat.

Just up the road sits a multibillion-dollar tribe-owned casino, Graton Resort & Casino — a project the writer oversees. “I had never been in a casino. I have a PhD in modern thought and literature from Stanford,” says Sarris.

How does an accomplished author find himself at the helm of a multibillion-dollar casino enterprise? It’s a question that still puzzles Sarris. “I told them if we can raise our people and become a platform for social justice and environmental stewardship to benefit Indian and non-Indian alike, I’ll do it.”

Before his stint as a reluctant casino mogul, Sarris was a prolific author and university professor at UCLA and Sonoma State. In 2023, he was appointed a regent of the University of California by Gavin Newsom. Over the course of his career, he published six books, and his novel “Grand Avenue” became an HBO original film in 1996.

California’s Native history: revisited

From early in his career, Sarris wanted to depict Indians as he knew them, rather than as Hollywood depicted them. “We’ve been erased by Hollywood, because the idea of Indians has always been Plains Indians or Southwest,” Sarris explains. “It’s easier for Americans to access Buffalo Bill.”

Greg Sarris' new novel "The Last Human Bear."

Greg Sarris’ new novel “The Last Human Bear.”

(Josh Edelson / For The Times)

“California Indians have always been left out of the picture,” says Sarris.

“The Last Human Bear” is Sarris’ latest attempt to revive the legacy of California’s Native history. The novel follows Mary Hatcher, a Pomo Indian in Sonoma County, from Prohibition through the 21st century. It’s told in the first person through Hatcher’s compelling voice as she narrates the horror and heartbreak of her lifetime over the course of a century, echoing William Faulkner’s literary style, which influenced Sarris.

‘California Indians have always been left out of the picture,’ says Sarris.

“I’m curious why you want to know about me,” reads the first line. The novel unfolds like an oral storytelling tradition, driven by a voice that Sarris painstakingly crafted, evoking his conversation with McKay. “The voice comes. I have to call it, almost like a spirit,” says Sarris. “I wanted it to feel like an oral story.”

Hatcher — a Pomo shape-shifter who dodges prejudice by passing as Mexican in the novel — is a thorny protagonist, often cunning, scheming and unforgiving. “An American Indian woman is as richly complicated as anybody else. I wanted to show this rich and complicated character who’s negotiated a history that she’s showing you,” says Sarris.

Acclaimed Northern California writer and activist Rebecca Solnit, who has authored 17 books and is a friend of Sarris’, says that she was fascinated by his ability to evoke so many aspects of female life in “The Last Human Bear.” Solnit was especially moved by Sarris’ rendering of California’s tragic history. “It’s shocking, given how rich California’s Indigenous cultures were — 99 different language groups, mythologies, belief systems and linguistic traditions. Every North American Indigenous language family is represented in California. It’s weird how this history has been erased, and how horrific what happened was.”

Climate change and ongoing ecological disasters have made Indigenous perspectives more vital than ever, the author argues. “I think Indigenous people have been hugely influential in giving us a point of view in which we were never separate from nature,” she says. According to Solnit, Sarris’ novels are part of a broader resurgence of interest in Native culture.

In the early chapters of the “The Last Human Bear,” the protagonist gets a job on a ranch by posing as Mexican, since Indians were forbidden from working as housekeepers. What follows is a tale of tension, deception and a forbidden love that sours, reminiscent of Brontë novels.

Sarris hopes that the novel illuminates an uncomfortable history of Sonoma County that remains largely invisible, looming beneath the soil of wine country. The novel offers “a history of this county that a lot of people haven’t seen,” says Sarris.

“There were more Indian people right where we’re sitting per capita than anywhere else in the entire New World outside Mexico City, which was the Aztec capital,” says Sarris. “The genocide was so horrendous.”

Identity, revenge and a search for home are themes that arise throughout the novel — subjects Sarris knows well in his own life.

Greg Sarris feeds chickens at an organic farm across the street from Graton Resort and Casino

Greg Sarris feeds chickens at an organic farm across the street from Graton Resort & Casino, which he heads, in Rhonert Park.

(Josh Edelson / For The Times)

Uncovering a hidden Native heritage

In 1952, Sarris’ teenage mother gave him up for adoption, her family hoping to evade the embarrassment of their Jewish daughter becoming pregnant by a Native American Filipino man. Sarris grew up in a white family in Santa Rosa alongside three siblings. His adopted father, George Sarris, became abusive, causing Greg to flee the house with his adopted mother’s blessing. “God bless her. She let me go out and live on ranches and run with other people to get away from him.”

It was in these formative years that Greg became acquainted with Native American people in Santa Rosa, always feeling a mysterious pull toward them. It was these years that also shaped his sensibility as a writer. “I was a lost kid on the streets, so I was always paying attention to everyone, listening, and people would tell me stories.”

Native Americans lived on the fringe of town, often practicing healing ceremonies that were frowned upon by white Catholic families in the suburbs Sarris explains. “When I was 15, I met Mabel McKay, who I wrote the book about. I knew she did some of those strange things that I heard about, but I liked her,” he says. “I had no idea that I was related to these people. I thought I was a mixed-blood Mexican or Spanish.”

At age 30, Sarris uncovered the identities of his birth parents and learned of his Native heritage. He learned his birth mother was buried in a pauper’s grave at the Calvary Catholic Cemetery in Santa Rosa, with “nothing to mark her grave but an upside-down horseshoe that has her name in it.” In the opening pages of the novel, a dedication to her: Bunny Hartman.

Excitedly, Sarris presented proof of his Indian heritage to McKay, his trusted confidant. “I thought it was a big deal that I had Indian blood,” says Sarris. He showed McKay a photo of his father, which she met with indifference. Naturally, Sarris was disappointed. “She told me something later: ‘You’re never any more Indian than your experience.’”

A lifelong outsider

Questions surrounding the legitimacy of Sarris’ heritage haunted him for decades and ultimately informed the novel. Being adopted by a white family, only to be shunned by the Native community, perpetuated his lifelong feeling of being an outsider. “I keep thinking maybe I just got in with this group of people and my Indian relatives so that I would feel rejected again,” he says. “We gravitate towards what we know as home emotionally.”

“I didn’t grow up on a reservation. I’m fair-skinned,” he says. “Being adopted, it feeds into that feeling of not being good enough,” he says, adding: “Illegitimacy is a medicine in the end.”

In the Native American literary community, Sarris has often felt excluded from discourse. When in doubt, he reminds himself of his involvement with the tribe. “Who among them have done this much for their people?” he asks. “Who among them has given this much time and sacrificed a writing career for their people?”

Jane Fonda, the two-time Academy Award-winning actress and activist, struck up a friendship with Sarris through a shared cause. “We met during the campaign to secure health and safety setbacks that would finally prevent oil wells from being drilled within 3,200 feet of a community. Greg and the federated tribes helped us win that fight against Big Oil,” Fonda explained in an email.

“I can tell from his books and my time with him that he embodies indigenous wisdom and beliefs,” Fonda says. “I see Greg Sarris as a man who embodies the best of two worlds — the mercantile culture of Western civilization and the indigenous world that knows we are part of nature and interdependent with it. It’s a rare and valuable combination.”

Greg Sarris, who holds a PhD in literature from Stanford, inside the casino he works for to help fund his tribe's future.

Greg Sarris, who holds a PhD in literature from Stanford, inside the casino he works for to help fund his tribe’s future.

(Josh Edelson / For The Times)

Inside the polarizing casino kingdom

The Graton Resort & Casino, launched by Sarris over 12 years ago, now plays a vital role in supporting the Pomo Indian community. “I promised early on: roof over everyone’s head, an insurance policy in every pocket and a college degree paid for,” he says. “We give $2.5 million a year in perpetuity to the University of California, so that all California Indians can go to the University of California tuition-free.” The casino has funded theater programs, youth writing intensives and revenue sharing with neighboring tribes.

On the car ride to the casino, Sarris is riffing on his friendship with Grateful Dead member Mickey Hart, who bought Sarris a quarter horse as a gift. In the casino, Sarris eagerly greets his employees with a friendliness that betrays his repeated insistence that he’s a reclusive writer. He points out blown-glass flower sculptures, an embellishment he once saw at the Four Seasons in Paris. He walks past the baccarat room, where he hosts high rollers from Beijing, whom he boasts, “play $100,000 in a hand.”

Early on, news of the casino’s construction caused waves of controversy across Sonoma County — some of which resulted in death threats against Sarris’ life. Concerns that a casino would invite debauchery into the county circulated, which Sarris points out is ironic for a community predicated on wine: “Beyond whether gambling is right or wrong, what is implicit is their privilege and elitism,” says Sarris. “People were getting scared because these brown people, who were the poorest in Sonoma County, are suddenly going to have power.”

Admittedly, Sarris says their newfound wealth has not been without repercussions in the tribe. “People who have been traumatized with generational poverty are the most vulnerable to the lure of materialism,” he says.

When time catches up

In the final chapters of “The Human Bear,” the protagonist, at the end of her life, recalls: “Human Bears often like to even the score before they die.” Revenge is futile, she concludes. “If I was going to avenge our people, I would have to poison nearabout all of history.”

Sarris recalls a similar epiphany he had speaking with McKay. He explains Pomo Indians believed that each action had a consequence. “Ethnographers always said we’re a culture predicated on black magic and fear. No, we were cultures predicated on profound respect for the complexity of all life,” says Sarris.

Then, white men came and seemingly bent the laws of natural order. “The Kashaya Pomo word for white people was ‘miracles’, because they came in and killed everything and did all these things. Nothing could come back to them,” says Sarris.

He explained to McKay that he thought of the white man’s fate differently. “Look, there’s no water. There’s no air. Everything’s poison,” he says, gesturing around him to this vast, broken world. “It’s all come back. It just took time.”

Connors is a culture journalist from Sonoma County. She covers books, food, entertainment and offbeat Los Angeles. She’s currently at work on a book of essays about tourism in all its forms.

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‘Girls Like Girls’ review: Brings all the feelings of first attraction

The blush of first love inside the glow of new friendship is where “Girls Like Girls” works its easygoing charms, but also an affecting sadness. You’d never mistake multihyphenate pop star Hayley Kiyoko’s directorial debut for a groundbreaking queer romance, but sometimes the best summer vibes require only a breezy intoxicant, something made of all the funny feelings, a few of the deeper ones and a lot of heart.

That also describes Kiyoko’s shepherding of her hit 2015 track “Girls Like Girls,” a hooky LGBTQ+ anthem that went from viral music video (which she co-directed) to bestselling YA novel and finally this feature adaptation, written with Chloe Okuno and Stefanie Scott (the original video’s star). “Girls Like Girls” may be conventionally imagined, but there’s an admirable focus on unadorned warmth in Kiyoko’s storytelling: She likes her girls and cares enough to want us to like them, too.

We’re dropped in picturesque rural Oregon, where we find bike-riding new kid in town Coley (appealing newcomer Maya da Costa), who happens upon an energetic crowd of peers at a local diner, then gets asked to join them for a lake excursion (“We don’t bite”) by confident and friendly Sonya (Myra Molloy). When Coley, a shy, watchful sort, gets thrown in the water by obnoxious Trenton (Levon Hawke), she tries to leave, but not before Sonya softens the blow by insisting on a “proper hang” and the exchange of AOL usernames. (Because, oh, yeah, it’s 2006, giving us a refreshingly nostalgic break from the tyranny of smartphones.)

Anyway, SonyeahXOXO and RollieColey87 take quickly to their obvious spark, initially sublimating that deeper attraction through scenes of laughter, teasing, the rush from shoplifted alcohol, bed-sharing and lots of deep gazing. But they also lean into a connection marked by honesty and vulnerability, particularly Coley’s grief over losing her mom and not feeling connected to her widowed dad (Zach Braff). With Sonja Tyspin’s cinematography imbuing an innocent, sensual curiosity, Kiyoko sweetly conveys the awkward thrill of fledgling emotions. One scene in particular, in which Coley explores Sonya’s room, touching everything, hums with the strange excitement of being a specially invited new confidante.

But the day after the pair’s unspoken attraction becomes physical — a scene deftly stretched to “Kiss already!” limits — a confusing tension enters the chat, triggering a tailspin of self-doubt in Coley. A lesser film might have pivoted toward assuring us of a happy makeup, but “Girls Like Girls,” which stays centered in Coley’s POV, understands that at the crux of her pain is an untended self-acceptance that must be addressed first. Da Costa realizes that journey with unforced naturalism, as if the camera just happened to be there to capture it. (Molloy betrays a more studied star wattage, but she’s nevertheless a solid other half.)

Mostly, “Girls Like Girls” wins us over with a singular type of first-film assuredness: a familiar story presented as the most personal reveal ever. If you can’t remember what it was like to try to tiptoe while swooning, your heart barely able to stay in your chest, you were never a teenager.

‘Girls Like Girls’

Rated: R, for teen alcohol and drug use, and some language

Running time: 1 hour, 35 minutes

Playing: Opens Friday, June 19 in limited release

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Sheryl Crow collaborator David Baerwald turns family spy secrets into a gripping novel.

David Baerwald holds up his most precious possession so that it’s visible on our video conference: a very old violin in a very old, battered case.

Baerwald, an award-winning musician, film composer and songwriter who called Los Angeles home for nearly four decades, doesn’t play the violin. During his years with the Tuesday Music Club (immortalized in the Sheryl Crow album “Tuesday Night Music Club”), he played guitar. But the violin belonged to his grandfather Ernst Baerwald — and it plays an important role in his recently published debut novel, “The Fire Agent.”

Not every successful artist turns to a new medium at age 65 or moves to the opposite coast (Baerwald now lives in Kingston, N.Y.). Then again, not every artist has a family history quite like Baerwald’s, one that includes Germany and Japan, two world wars, a 1920s throuple and Beethoven’s Ninth.

On the Shelf

The Fire Agent

By David Baerwald
Spiegel & Grau: 624 pages, $32

If you buy books linked on our site, The Times may earn a commission from Bookshop.org, whose fees support independent bookstores.

The violin in Baerwald’s hands was the one his German-Jewish grandfather played as a Japanese prisoner of war in the Bandō camp at Tokushima during World War I. “It’s a very serviceable violin,” Baerwald notes. “A friend of mine played it for some years in the Long Beach Symphony. When my grandfather was older and wealthy, he bought a better violin, which was lost in a fire. But this is the one that matters.”

It matters because Ernst Baerwald was a founding member of a German POW orchestra that chose Beethoven’s great symphony as their premiere work — a performance so moving that it began a Japanese tradition marking the December holidays that persist to this day. Baerwald’s grandfather not only kept his violin throughout the war in which he fought; when he defected from the Third Reich in 1941, he placed it in an oiled bag and brought it with him via an oceanic escape.

Ernst Baerwald’s odyssey from a cushy childhood in Frankfurt to his final days in a beautiful Berkeley mansion, with a long sojourn in Tokyo along the way, reads like, well, a novel. Sent to an elite boys’ prep school in Germany, then on to a seriously disciplined Milanese dojo where he was trained by a Japanese sensei, Ernst was a prisoner in Japan for four years during World War I.

Those details might have been easy to find, but it wasn’t until David Baerwald went to clear out his parents’ house in Brentwood that he discovered papers showing that his grandfather had not only been the head of the Tokyo office of I.G. Farben, but that he had given a major speech to the nascent Office of Strategic Services (precursor to the Central Intelligence Agency) in 1943 that laid out the plan for the firebombing of Japan.

For the record:

10:56 a.m. June 8, 2026An earlier version of this story said Ernst Baerwald’s 1943 speech to the OSS urged use of the atomic bomb on Japan. It laid out the plan for the firebombing of Japan. It also said Kurt Baerwald joined the CIA. He joined the U.S. Army.

He also urged them not to allow partnerships between large corporations and the military, the way the German scientific community and government did with I.G. Farben and Krupp Armaments and Steel. “Any business that makes peace with Fascism will become Fascist,” he said. “And once Fascism captures economic control, then a Fascist coup will inevitably follow to seize political power. Germany, Italy, Rumania, Japan, Spain the story is the same. We cannot allow it to become the story of America.”

When Baerwald read that, “I was really alarmed, in the moment,” he says, realizing how closely tied his grandfather had been to the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. “But it gave me a plan.” He wanted to show how deeply his grandfather had become integrated into Japanese culture.

“One of my characters tells Ernst that he has ‘yuyo,’ which might best be described as grace,” says Baerwald. “Its Japanese meaning is closer to the state of a river rock that has been washed over and tumbled thousands of times, so that it’s both distinct, and a meaningful part of its environment.” To some extent, the author understands “yuyo” personally, having lived in Japan and been educated at its International School until age 12, when his family moved back to California, “although I wouldn’t claim it for myself,” he says.

That move, in the early 1970s, may have led to his career in music. “When we got back to the States, I was extremely troubled. Call me a fish out of water, I guess. I went through a period of voluntary mutism — I think they call it selective communication. I didn’t talk to anyone, especially not to my family. My hearing would sort of come and go at will, too.” His mother understood he seemed to like his sister’s acoustic guitar, so she suggested he take some lessons. “At the time, it wasn’t at all a career path, it was a way of reassembling my brain so that I could cope with the reality I was experiencing, finding a way to communicate again.”

Part of what he was experiencing, which he knows a great deal more about now, was feeling “the secrets that were the engine propelling my family.” After Ernst’s long career of service and deception, David Baerwald’s father, Kurt, entered the U.S. Army during WWII and later became a professor of Japanese studies at both in Japan and at UCLA. The effects on their family of five still reverberate. Baerwald’s mother eventually became a clinical psychologist who specializes in trauma. “I had to separate myself completely from my family in order to survive,” he says.

However, what stalled the writing of this first novel were the two decades he initially left out, which included Ernst, Lina and their lover Chizuko being a ménage à trois in a 1923 Tokyo dealing with the aftermath of an earthquake and wildfires.

Although “The Fire Agent” is based on Ernst’s history, not all of the facts are congruent. The wrestling coach at the American school in Tokyo, Ernst’s glamorous courtesan Chizuko, and many of the characters are composites. Speaking of that courtesan, Baerwald says it’s true that his grandfather and grandmother cohabited with a Japanese woman for many years, even after Lina and Ernst had a child together. “I found so many letters between my grandfather and my grandmother and I think they truly loved each other, and I think they truly loved that woman, too.”

That didn’t make it easy for Baerwald to write about that love. “My German grandmother, on whom Lina is partly based, was terrifying,” he says. “It was easier to write about her sex life with my grandfather and their Japanese lover by creating composite characters.”

He didn’t want to leave out their sex life, though, or that of others.

“Every generation of young people thinks they invented sex, right? But nothing is new — and it never gets old. Here’s an example. One of my godfathers, Sam Jameson, was the L.A. Times bureau chief in Tokyo for decades. He was also the doyenne, if you will, of the cross-dressing community in that city. It was this rich world he was a part of that nobody knew anything about. I based the character I call Bünheimer on him.”

Some of the worlds Baerwald has uncovered through his family’s papers are rich and sensual; others, like the POW camp where Ernst was held and the speech he gave to the OSS analysts at the Presidio in the 1940s, are stark and terrible. While he renders all appropriately, he’s aware that his perspective remains that of a white Western man. How did he gain the courage to write about people of other races, cultures and genders? He says it comes from something he did when he was on a swim team in high school. “The psychological trick I would play on myself at each meet was to imagine the water I’d dive into was freezing cold,” he says. “And of course it wasn’t. Which was such a relief and kept me going.”

Like his grandfather’s beloved violin, Baerwald has taken a deep dive into previously unknown waters — and survived. As he works on his second novel, he’s better prepared for airing family secrets and the publishing world. Ever the musician, he likens his first round with it to a Shepard tone, the auditory illusion that can make listeners feel like two notes one octave apart are constantly ascending or descending in pitch (Baerwald has worked with famed composer Hans Zimmer, who used the tone in, for example, “The Dark Knight”).

“A Shepard tone can make you feel like you’re flying. Or sinking,” he says. “At this point in my life and art, I prefer to have my feet firmly on the ground.”

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What is Dave Eggers’ new book about? Inside the plot of ‘Contrapposto’

Book Review

Contrapposto

By Dave Eggers
Knopf: 432 pages, $32

If you buy books linked on our site, The Times may earn a commission from Bookshop.org, whose fees support independent bookstores.

What does it mean to lack ambition in a country that worships wealth? It means you are a capitalist wallflower, a laggard with a serious character flaw. No field of endeavor is immune from this attitude, the art world least of all. But artists with a desire for riches and fame must not declare their intentions so brazenly. At a time when the plastic arts are about as marginalized as they ever have been, and media buzz is generated by dead painters whose works sell for enormous sums at auction, creation in and of itself has little value unless it is lashed to something marketable.

With his new novel “Contrapposto,” Dave Eggers has written a big-hearted, deeply moving story about the choices artists make, or don’t make, to square up their own notions of success and happiness. The book is dual bildungsroman, following two friends across the long span of their lives from adolescence to their 70s, as they fall in and out of each other’s lives, make their way in the world, and fumble around for meaning and purpose in their art.

The protagonist in “Contrapposto” is Rob “Cricket” Dibb, an underclass Midwestern kid, raised by a single mother in a North Indiana suburb that’s about as nowheresville as it gets for budding artists with dreams of glory. Cricket doesn’t dream big. He’s just trying to endure without bodily harm, seeking refuge from his mother’s abusive boyfriend in the basement with his grandfather Silas, who teaches him about jazz and the beauty of a glorious sunset. He draws so he doesn’t have to think. Immersion in art is his escape hatch from the dreariness of his pinched world: “The drawing meant nothing, would never mean anything to anyone, but it was true to how he saw it. His hand had recorded what he saw and felt about this thing. He was an ugly, common creature who could occasionally freeze time. That was enough.”

Cricket’s apprenticeship is decidedly informal. No full scholarship rides to Bard or Pratt for him; instead he saves up to enroll himself in a life drawing class in Chicago, where he discovers the beauty of applying rigor and rules to his work, how to break down pictures into the geometry of circles and squares, planes and angles. “He measured proportions and improved,” writes Eggers. “He grew more confident with each pass on his drawing, and realized … that much of the rightness of the drawing, of any drawing, came through time and diligence and discernment.”

He meets his slightly older schoolmate Olympia, one of Eggers’ most beguiling creations, when she implores him to scrawl scatological bathroom graffiti on a playground structure in Old-English typography. Unlike Cricket, Olympia is earnest and sincere about her art in the way that only a young person untainted by cynicism can be. She claims to inhabit the soul of Albert Camus, and flings around aphorisms about art that fly over Cricket’s head. She is an aesthete, someone who likes to go to the race track just to revel in the colors on display there. She wants to create an art scene in their little world. “You know all the great art movements have friends at their core, right?,” she tells Cricket. “A lot of time they’re jammed together by some critics and the artists reject the name and the association. But think about Patti Smith and Sam Shepard. Did you know they dated for a while?”

Cricket is beguiled by her, and Olympia in turn is taken in by Cricket’s talent. When the local library pulls a few of Cricket’s semi-nude life drawing portraits down for fear of offending their patrons, Olympia becomes his advocate and champion. In contrast to Cricket, who skates along with no end plan, Olympia is a committed careerist, an artist who insists on a captive audience to justify her work. She wants to earn money as an artist; Cricket just wants to be left alone. This push and pull between the two frame Eggers’ novel across the six decades of his narrative.

One of many joys of “Contrapposto” is observing Cricket’s artistic awakening via the mentors who guide him into his artistic consciousness. Marcus Carpenter, a wizened sage in battered work boots (one imagines him as the art world analogue to the late novelist Jim Harrison), is the moral conscience of the novel, fighting the good fight for personal expression and railing against the “new, paradoxical tyranny wherein those without technical skill terrorize those who possess it.” Carpenter plucks Cricket from arts college and its meaningless pontificating to his “atelier in the corn,” a ramshackle Victorian where Cricket learns how to transmute what he sees with color and light. “The talented have talent,” Carpenter tells Cricket during one of his endearing rants. “The untalented have theories.”

From there, Cicket’s life is a crooked line. He doesn’t abandon art, but he can’t summon the urge to sell himself or his work, to graft his joy in making things onto the caprices of the marketplace. As Eggers jumps through time, we find Cricket working as an intern in an art gallery, an arid, lifeless space where nothing inspiring can possibly exist. As a young man he works as a ship-breaker in Turkey; in middle-age, we find him in a coastal town in Cambodia, making replicas of great paintings for tourists. Olympia, his elusive love and sporadic muse, flits in and out of his life as she works her way up the tiers of the art world’s ziggurat. She gently berates him for his timidity: “This is how artists have power. We sell work. You’re implying there’s nobility in powerlessness. That’s been an idiotic trope for too long — that participating in the business side of it taints you. Do you know how dumb that is? That artists have to be these fragile little wood nymphs that are too precious to touch the money?”

As “Contrapposto” arrives at its beautiful, life-affirming conclusion, we are left pondering the significance of artistic endeavor in a world that commodifies everything, including our bodies and brains. At a time when even the greatest achievements are debased in a culture that gives equal weight to meretricious novelty, is it even worth the trouble? Eggers’ brilliant novel has the answer: Follow your bliss. In the final analysis, it is all that matters.

Weingarten is the author of “Thirsty: William Mulholland, California Water, and the Real Chinatown.”

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‘Cape Fear’ review: Javier Bardem is chilling, charming in this remake

Cape Fear,” premiering Friday on Apple TV, is a 10-episode limited series remake of a 1991 Martin Scorsese remake of a 1962 film adapted from John D. MacDonald’s 1957 novel “The Executioners,” and as in a game of telephone each subsequent version adds new material and moves a little farther from the original. (The credits to the series, created by Nick Antosca, note all previous sources and screenwriters.) Thirty-four years having passed since the last go-round, we are treated to such modern advances as catfishing, drones, deep fakes, social media and pushy true-crime podcasters.

In each iteration, a family is menaced by a recently released ex-con who blames one or more of them for his incarceration. Antosca fills his extra-long take on the material with complications and inventions; though the series is also chock full of borrowings from and allusions to its predecessors — you can hardly call them Easter eggs, lying there as they do in plain sight. (And sound: Bernard Herrmann and Elmer Bernstein‘s earlier scores share space with Jeff Russo’s new one.)

In every version, the antagonist is a now-charming, now-menacing psychopath named Max Cady (Javier Bardem), memorably played by Robert Mitchum in 1962 and Robert De Niro in 1991. In the novel and movies, Cady was serving time for rape; here it’s for the murder of his wife and unborn child, when new evidence suddenly springs him from prison after 17 years. We are invited to suspect this evidence from the very beginning, though this suspicion will itself become suspect. “Or is it?” is a question you’ll be prompted to ask through the series.

The objects of Cady’s slow-boiling vengeance — seemingly — are married lawyers Tom (Patrick Wilson) and Anna Bowden (Amy Adams), sharing the position previously represented solely by Gregory Peck and Nick Nolte in turn. Anna, who had unsuccessfully represented Cady, ironically works for an Innocence Project-type nonprofit, whose chief, Noa Toussaint (CCH Pounder), is only too delighted to fundraise on the back of Cady’s celebrity. Cady, claiming no hard feelings, insinuates himself into their world, apparently friendly, apparently helpful, so that it’s not always clear what’s sincere and what’s strategy. Is he a wolf in sheep’s clothing, or just a creepy, sometimes violent sheep? (“Killed his wife, didn’t kill his wife,” a minor character will volunteer, “he’s an arrogant bastard either way.”)

There are now two Bowden children in the picture, doubling earlier versions. Natalie (Lily Collias), Anna’s daughter from a previous relationship, is a good girl looking to go just a little bad, who feels unseen by her busy parents. Sad, sullen younger half-brother Zach (Joe Anders), unrecovered from a social media misstep, is acting more strangely than teenage boys usually do.

This is a cat and mouse — or cats and mice — melodrama, with customized stock characters given dark secrets and backstory traumas less as explanation than complication. (Good, bad, whatever, everyone’s got issues.) Cady, who has a prison-acquired brain injury — cue flashback, in black and white, naturally — suffers from headaches and hallucinations, reacting painfully to flashbulbs (a Chekov gun, I wondered?), seeing visions of his dead wife and son, whom he pictures grown. (He is sad about it, whether or not it’s his fault.) And is that masked woman in green he keeps seeing real or imagined?

On a nuts and bolts level, it’s all screwed together tight, even the pieces that stick out at weird angles. (Is there a reason to make Cady an apparently talented chef, other than to demonstrate his knife skills?) The actors fill their parts with feeling. Bardem gets the most, and most extreme attitudes, to play, whether cozying up individually to the Bowdens, threatening a groupie, undergoing a religious conversion, acting normal or being weird. Adams is low-key forceful as his primary opponent. (Tom’s comparatively weak character is underscored by his secret habit of microdosing LSD and a nothingburger flirtation with a colleague.) Collias is impressively real. The dialogue is well-crafted, the Southern atmosphere (Atlanta doubling Savannah, with Savannah here and there standing for itself) suitably oppressive.

Nevertheless, it’s fair to ask whether this story, even with its yards of extra material, could be told in under nine hours? The answer, most assuredly, is yes. And might it be better shorter? It might.

Not that I’ve ever been a fly on the walls of the executive conference or dining or washrooms where such deals are made, but I suspect the length has less to do with artistic necessity than A) the obscure economics of streaming and B) the not unrelated habits of viewers, who, to judge by questions I get asked, abhor a vacuum. A 10-episode series will put off the moment when they have “nothing to watch,” while the streamer gets to keep them in the ecosystem longer. “Cape Fear” is hardly the only series to which this applies. As I imagine the series will do well — mystery with a smattering of horror seems very much what the people want — more may be just the ticket for some people. Still, there’s a sense that the story has expanded to fill the space, with plotlines for all and crazy side trips (snakes! drugs!) in escalating levels of nuttiness.

That might be more feature than bug, but I can’t say I felt much of anything for the characters, or was concerned whether the Bowdens would emerge from their ordeals a stronger family. (Whatever the outcome, I’d say they have work to do.) Having been given only eight of 10 episodes to review, I’m interested, in a disinterested way, how this all will shake out, when the story finally moves to the Cape Fear River, and whatever final twists — that there will be twists, I am certain — an inevitably Action Packed Finale has in store.

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I walked nearly 89 miles to every Erewhon in L.A.: Here’s what happened

The idea grew as organically as the purple cauliflower at Erewhon. One day, I walked from my place in Los Feliz to the beach. I stopped at two Erewhon locations on the way to refuel. I made a reel about my journey and posted it to Instagram. My friend Fish saw it and said, “You should walk to all the Erewhons.”

I thought: I don’t have time to do that. I’m a very serious person who needs to write her novel.

But later I found myself mapping out an 89-mile hike in my Notes App, starting in Pasadena and ending in Calabasas, stopping at all 10 Erewhon locations on the way. (My route did not include the Palisades, which is closed because of the fires; nor did it include LACMA or the new Glendale locale.)

“I need to write my novel” is a thought I have a lot. I usually heed this thought and sit at the desk like a soldier, imagining the wonderful day when I’ll sell said novel — for an amount that would probably be comparable to a fraction of an Erewhon employee’s yearly salary.

Erewhon Trail map

Erewhon Trail map illustration by Swan Huntley.

(Erewhon Trail map illustration by Swan Huntley. )

I really wasn’t in the mood to write the novel, though. When I imagined myself pecking away at the keyboard, I felt bad. When I imagined myself walking around L.A. in my Home Depot gardening hat, I felt good. So, I put on my hat, got into an Uber headed for Pasadena, and texted my sister, “Carpe diem, bitch.” Or at least that was my intention. What I actually sent was, “Carpet diem hitch.”

Over the summer, I hiked a little bit of the Pacific Crest Trail. A few years ago, I biked the Camino in Spain. I’ve walked from Los Feliz to the beach a handful of times. I’ve traversed the length of Manhattan thrice. Before that, when I was a teenager, I used to trek from La Jolla to Del Mar while drinking beer (I carried a cooler; yes, I’m sober now) and listening to Sarah McLachlan on my Discman. I’ve always been drawn to activities that many people find tedious. Like walking forever. Or writing a novel.

Starting in the fourth century, pilgrimages were served up by the church as a way for Christians to pay penance for their sins. They were hard and dangerous and a lot of people died. Fast-forward to now: Such treks have taken on an “Eat, Pray, Love” aura. Or a “Wild “ aura. They live in the realm of self-help and of sport. They’re a way to create friction in an increasingly frictionless world. By walking from Mexico to Canada, or from Erewhon to Erewhon, I wonder whether we’re trying to get back to the part of ourselves that wants to try harder.

Or we just want to become more valuable dinner party guests.

What do you do?

I do really long walks.

I ordered a Goddess Smoothie in Pasadena, and then I repeated this tradition at every store thereafter. The smoothie costs $19, tastes like heaven, and it’s green, which my brain reads as “good for me.”

It took me a little over three hours to walk 11 miles to Silver Lake. I got a Vegan Avocado Sandwich for lunch, took an Uber home and posted a reel on Instagram about my first day on the trail. A lot of people liked it. Some of them called me a genius.

In the last 10 years, I’ve published four novels and two illustrated books for adults. I was naïve and just totally blindly happy about the publishing process in the beginning. People wanted to buy my work? Other people wanted to read it? Cool.

The first book, “We Could Be Beautiful,” did well because the publisher put real money into the marketing of it. Then that stopped happening. At a certain point, I realized that expecting too much was unwise. It was up to me to market my books myself. Which meant: social media.

They say you have to see a book cover six times before you buy the book — or consider buying it. There are a lot of book covers on Instagram. Actually, there’s a lot of everything on Instagram, and out of all the everything, is a book cover that exciting?

No.

My second reel, which depicted my journey from Silver Lake to Studio City, went a little bit viral. To date, almost 10,000 people have shared it with their friends. Why? I think the answer has something to do with a desire for levity.

If the atmosphere of the world could be depicted by an Erewhon beverage, it wouldn’t be a vibrant, cheerful one, like the bright magenta Pitaya Smoothie. It would be the dark and brooding Germ Warfare Shot. I find it perplexing that people talk about the apocalypse as if it’s happening later. It’s happening now. If we were really thinking about how climate change is affecting us, we’d be out in the streets screaming. All the time. But we’re not doing that. We’re carrying on with our usual lives. Apparently, for me, that includes walking to Erewhons.

Any long-distance trek is as much an internal journey as it is external. As I continued the trail, I started to think that maybe my endeavor was a reaction to my feeling of total powerlessness. I can’t save the polar bears. I can’t force the president to go to therapy. But I can add some levity to the brooding atmosphere.

Recently, someone commented on one of the reels, “Transplants make LA locals look bad.” This person, and many others, hear the name Erewhon and assume I’m poking fun at it. Erewhon has become a joke about L.A. — a joke that was amplified after Hailey Bieber invented her smoothie in 2022 that Erewhon dubs the “Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie.” I’ve never had it, but I can tell you that it looks like a sky full of strawberry clouds. According to an Erewhon employee I spoke to, this smoothie was a turning point. It aligned the brand with wealth and power. Now, Erewhon evokes the image of smooth-skinned, health-conscious Angelenos with money to burn.

The Erewhon Trail, then, inevitably becomes a conversation about privilege, my own included. Instagram hid my two favorite comments, because it was worried they’d be too rude to show, but I think they’re the funniest ones.

This is what white people do on Prozac.

This is what happens when a liberal arts teacher gets fired.

To both of these comments, I say: Yes.

I’m not on Prozac yet, but maybe after I get fired, I will be.

In order to get fired, though, I’d have to get an actual job, which might never happen.

The most intense leg of the trail was from Santa Monica to Calabasas. My friend Fish joined me. Google said it would take 27 miles. After marching through the mountains, I decided to use my own intelligence to make the route shorter. This cut out four miles, bringing the total to 23. For long stretches, Fish and I walked in the bike lane, or in the bramble by the side of the road. That’s the penalty for straying from Google. Your sidewalks disappear and your chances of getting hit by a car go way up.

My legs were noodles by the time we got to Calabasas. I crawled across the parking lot to show my viewers how weak they’d become. The employee at the door smiled at me and handed me a basket, and I thought about the pain of my legs, which no one could see, and about all the secret battles people are fighting all the time, and I wished that we cared about each other as much as Erewhon cares about us. Multiple employees were perfecting the already-perfect plateaus of bell peppers and apples in the produce section. Their thoughtfulness was the opposite of the vibe I encounter in most public restrooms, which is that the strangers who were there before me didn’t have many thoughts about my experience. As lame as the fact that an Erewhon smoothie costs $19 is that so many of us need to be paid to be nice to each other.

When I tell people about my love for Erewhon, they either say, “Duh, I know,” or something along the lines of, “That place is ridiculous, right?” This is almost always followed by the mention of a food item and some amount of money. Like, “Doesn’t a carrot cost $12,000?”

Actually, I tell them, no. Although sometimes, yes. There is a Japanese strawberry that’s famously expensive ($20), but that’s avoidable. I then explain that contrary to popular thought, there is a way to shop at Erewhon on a budget. A jar of soup, for example, costs $15.50. If you return the bottle, you get $3 back. In my opinion, the soup can be two meals, so that’s $6.25 per meal. A lot of the produce is either the same price or only a little bit more expensive than at other health food stores, and it’s in consistently better shape. The most important piece of making Erewhon more affordable, though, is becoming a member. You get 10% off, a free drink of the month and discounts on a bunch of items.

You might be wondering: How many Erewhon memberships has she personally sold?

She’s lost count.

The other reason to go to Erewhon is the environment. It’s visually appealing and the employee-to-customer ratio is notable, and the result is that you feel like you’re at a resort. And frankly, these simple things — a nice environment, high quality food — should be available to everyone.

Back to the question of whether or not Erewhon is ridiculous — yes, of course it is. If you sit at any of the locations and listen to the conversations around you, you’ll probably feel like you’re an extra in a satirical movie. At Studio City, I overheard two moms in white pants and cashmere sweaters talking about how, based on their Instagram recon, they figured out that so-and-so was sitting next to so-and-so at a benefit dinner. Another snippet I overheard in Studio City: “You gotta make music from the heart, man, and the label will feel it.”

It didn’t occur to me to ask for free merch until after I’d finished the trail. Armando at the Santa Monica location was the lucky recipient of my request. I explained my uniquely heroic feat to him, and then wondered aloud if perhaps I could get a sweatshirt, or at least a hat.

Sadly, Armando was unauthorized to give me merch, but he did offer me a gift card in a tiny envelope. I was very grateful. I assumed the card was worth $50 at least.

After we parted ways, I opened the envelope.

Ten dollars.

Enough to put a down payment on a smoothie.

My dreams now are so different from when I was younger. Back in grad school, I imagined that maybe I’d write a bestselling novel, and maybe it would be adapted for the screen, and maybe my tombstone would read: She contributed very serious literature to civilization.

What I never accounted for was, of course, the unknown. Maybe one day, over a decade after school ended, I’d get a lot of attention for making performance art about walking to grocery stores.

Huntley’s novels include “I Want You More,” “Getting Clean With Stevie Green,” “The Goddesses” and “We Could Be Beautiful.” She’s also the writer/illustrator of the darkly humorous “The Bad Mood Book” and “You’re Grounded: An Anti-Self-Help Book to Calm You the F— Down.” She lives in Los Angeles.

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Barnes & Noble clarifies stance on AI-written books after blowback

Barnes & Noble was turning a page on the chain’s history of declining sales, but recent comments have stirred bad blood for the bookseller.

James Daunt, the chief executive credited with breathing new life into the retailer, is clarifying the store’s stance on stocking its shelves with AI-written books.

The controversy stems from Daunt’s Monday appearance on “Today” with Jenna Bush Hager. In a viral clip from the interview, Daunt said, “I have actually no problem selling any book, as long as it doesn’t masquerade or pretend to be something that it isn’t. So, as long as an AI-written book says it’s an AI-written book, then we will stock them.”

By Wednesday, thousands of calls to boycott the bookseller had flooded social media.

Kathlin Finn, a writer and former employee of the chain, posted on social media, writing, “Hey Barnes & Not Noble, I worked for you and have supported you, but your latest AI decision is extremely disappointing. I will not be shopping or promoting B&N unless you change your AI policy.”

Author Cristin Bishara wrote, “As an author this [is] the most depressing news. I’ve been saying for a long time that this was coming. People told me I was overreacting. And I had a feeling it would start with a cute round table at the front of a B&N.”

Another social media user added, “The Barnes & Noble CEO saying they’ll stock AI generated books as long as they’re labeled and aren’t ‘ripping off somebody else’ is wild considering all generative AI is ripping off someone else.”

Daunt told The Times that the wave of backlash is based on misinterpretations of what he said, and that only a “highly edited version” of what the bookseller “actually said” had been aired.

In an emailed statement, he said the bookseller does not sell AI books, “as far as we are aware.” Barnes & Noble “demand[s] that publishers label any books that are AI generated,” and the chain takes “active measures to exclude all AI generated books.”

Daunt further stated that Barnes & Noble “will sell AI generated books if there is clear demand” and not “ban reputable books published by reputable publishers, even if AI generated, should these be published, labeled and there be clear evidence of customer demand.”

He also said that the retailer thinks it’s “very unlikely” that there will be customer demand for AI-generated books or that reputable publishers will publish them.

“The argument is nuanced, and perhaps over nuanced, but there are important principles that have to be balanced and I believe we do so as sensibly and thoughtfully as is possible,” he said. “Book banning is a clear and present danger, so we are very careful with demands to ban any books” while also remaining vigilant “not to sell AI generated books that masquerade to be by real authors.”

Last year, Daunt spoke with BBC on the issue of AI in publishing and bookselling and said that there’s a huge proliferation of AI-generated content, and “most of it is not books that we should be selling.” He told the broadcaster that, as a bookseller, the company sells what publishers publish and that he’d be surprised by efforts to put forth an “AI-generated piece of nonsense” but that, ultimately, the decision on reading material would lie with the reader.

“We don’t dictate, and we don’t dictate around politics or any other particular issues around books,” he said. “We leave it up to the reader to decide.”

In June 2025, more than 70 authors issued a call to action to big-five publishers Penguin Random House, HarperCollins, Simon & Schuster, Hachette Book Group, and Macmillan, asking the companies to pledge that they will never release books that were created by machines. Authors Lauren Groff, R.F. Kuang, Emma Straub and Emily Henry were among the petitioners.

“At its simplest level, our job as artists is to respond to the human experience. But the art we make is a commodity, and our world wants things quickly, cheaply, and on demand,” the letter read.

“We are rushing toward a future where our novels, our biographies, our poems and our memoirs — our records of the human experience — are ‘written’ by artificial intelligence models that, by definition, cannot know what it is to be human. To bleed, or starve, or love. …

“Every time a prompt is entered into AI, the language that bot uses to respond was created in part through the synthesis of art that we, the undersigned, have spent our careers crafting. Taken without our consent, without payment, without even the courtesy of acknowledgment.”

In March, Hachette pulled “Shy Girl” from publication after widespread allegations that the horror novel appeared to be AI-generated and was swiftly scrubbed from Amazon and the Hachette website. The book’s author, Mia Ballard, denied that she had relied on AI to pen the book but said an acquaintance she had hired to edit the novel used AI.

“Hachette remains committed to protecting original creative expression and storytelling,” a Hachette spokeswoman said, per the New York Times.

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