They brought a woman from the street And made her sit in the stalls By threats By bribes By flattery Obliging her to share a little of her life with actors
But I don't understand art
Sit still, they said
But I don't want to see sad things
Sit still, they said
And she listened to everything Understanding some things But not others Laughing rarely, and always without knowing why Sometimes suffering disgust Sometimes thoroughly amazed And in the light again, said
If that's art I think it is hard work It was beyond me So much beyond my actual life
But something troubled her Something gnawed her peace And she came a second time, armoured with friends
Sit still, she said
And again, she listened to everything This time understanding different things This time untroubled that some things Could not be understood Laughing rarely but now without shame Sometimes suffering disgust Sometimes thoroughly amazed And in the light again said
This is art, it is hard work And one friend said, too hard for me And the other said, if you will I will come again Because I found it hard I felt honoured
July is the month when time both expands and disappears. The days are thick with heat, the air smells of grass, salt, and sunscreen, and the hours unfold like an old quilt—faded, but beloved, patched with both stillness and motion.
July is made for reading the way winter is made for soup: the two seem biologically destined for one another. It is the month when reading can happen anywhere: under a striped beach umbrella, in the stifling cocoon of a tent, on a rickety porch swing, or simply sprawled across the cool floorboards.
Unlike the frantic lists of “New Year’s reading resolutions,” July’s books ask nothing of you but attention. They don’t care if you finish them. They only ask to be carried along—dog-eared, sun-warmed, cat-chewed, maybe a little sandy? In that spirit of gentle adventure, here are six books that feel particularly right for July’s slow, golden hours.
1. The Aliens by Annie Baker
A play may seem an unusual choice for summer, but The Aliens is the kind of quiet, exquisite work that fits perfectly into the languor of July. Set behind a Vermont coffee shop, it revolves around two aimless but endearing friends who spend their days talking about music, Bukowski, and nothing at all—until a high school student enters their orbit. Baker’s dialogue hums with the rhythms of real life: silences, false starts, digressions. It’s a play about not much, and yet it glows with the ache of being young, lost, and alive in the sticky warmth of early summer. Read it on a porch with a sweating glass of something cold, and let its gentle melancholy wash over you.
2. Travels With Charley by John Steinbeck
There may be no better companion for a July road trip—real or imaginary—than Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley. In 1960, the great American author set off across the country with his poodle Charley, searching for the soul of a nation on the brink of seismic change. The result is part travelogue, part meditation, part love letter to the vast, strange beauty of America. Steinbeck’s observations are sharp but generous; his affection for people and landscapes alike makes every dusty roadside café, mountain pass, and highway motel glow with literary grace. Even if you’re only traveling as far as your backyard, this book makes you feel like you’re in motion.
3. John Adams by David McCullough
For those craving something weightier amidst July’s breezy distractions, David McCullough’s magisterial biography of John Adams is a feast. History in McCullough’s hands is not dry; it is alive, intricate, and vividly human. Adams—brilliant, irascible, deeply principled—emerges not just as a Founding Father, but as a fully-fleshed character with passions, flaws, and profound loneliness. The Revolutionary War crackles in the background, but it’s the private letters between Adams and his beloved Abigail that linger. "Sit down, John" and read it in the stillness of a July afternoon, when the echoes of America’s birth feel especially poignant in the summer air.
4. On the Road by Jack Kerouac
No July reading list would be complete without this fizzy, restless anthem to freedom. On the Road is a book for hot nights, for dusty highways, for the perpetual ache of wanderlust. Kerouac’s prose is alive with speed, jazz, poetry, and desperation—the desire to find something, anything, that makes life burn brighter. Even if you’re not setting off cross-country in a beat-up car, reading this in July stirs up the feeling that you could. The open road is always waiting, just over the next hill.
5. SWAMPLANDIA! by Karen Russell
If July is for humidity, weirdness, and family legends, then Swamplandia! is the perfect literary match. Set in the swamps of Florida, this novel follows thirteen-year-old Ava Bigtree, whose family runs a run-down alligator-wrestling theme park. After her mother’s death, Ava embarks on a surreal odyssey through mangroves and the underworld, crossing paths with ghosts, birdmen, and con artists. Russell’s language is lush and playful, but the heart of the book is tender: it’s about grief, growing up, and the mythologies we build to survive. Best read on a summer night when the air feels thick with stories.
6. The Summer Book by Tove Jansson
A jewel of stillness and light, The Summer Book is composed of small vignettes set on a tiny island off the coast of Finland, where a six-year-old girl and her grandmother spend the summer together. Nothing much happens—except, of course, everything. Jansson captures the quiet miracles of the natural world and the tender negotiations of family love in prose so clear it feels like sea glass. This is the kind of book you can read in fragments, setting it aside and picking it back up without losing the thread. It is a perfect July companion: gentle, wise, and suffused with the hush of long, golden evenings.
July is a month made for reading that isn’t hurried, strategic, or guilt-ridden. These are books to be savored in slowness, to accompany you through afternoons when the only plan is to follow your curiosity wherever it wanders. Whether you’re stretched out under a tree, half-awake in a hammock, or traveling across states with a paperback in your bag, let these stories keep you company. July, after all, is one of literature’s favorite months: expansive, sun-drenched, and gloriously unhurried.
June is the month when books begin to breathe again. After the frantic ambitions of spring and before the scorched lethargy of high summer, June offers a kind of golden intermission— one where reading feels less like an activity and more like a conversation with the season itself. The air is forgiving; the days are long enough to lose track of time entirely; and there is a distinct pleasure in letting a novel sprawl open beside you on a picnic blanket or the cool tile of a shaded porch. This is not the season of required reading, but of elective affinities— books chosen not out of duty, but desire.
In the spirit of such gentle indulgence, I offer a reading list for June: three books that feel particularly at home in this lush, lingering month.
1. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll
We’re all mad here. And June, after all, is a month that is more than a little mad. The bees are drunk on nectar, the birds wear ridiculous plumage, and the earth’s geometry has gone squishy. And these tales all take place in “the golden afternoon,” of course; that glorious golden afternoon of Lewis Carroll’s seemingly infinite imagination: all elasticity, upheaval, surprise, and possibility.
‘Lewis Carroll’ was the pseudonym of Reverend Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, a lecturer in mathematics at Christ Church, Oxford, who lived from 1832 to 1898. Carroll’s physical deformities, partial deafness, and irrepressible stutter made him an unlikely candidate for producing one of the most enduring children’s fantasies in the English language.
Carroll felt a debilitating shyness around adults but became animated
and fully himself around children. His crippling stammer melted away in
the company of children as he told them his elaborately nonsensical
stories. Over the course of his lifetime he made many child friends whom
he wrote to frequently, mentioned in his diaries, and (as a gifted
amateur photographer) took numerous portraits of throughout his life.
[And! PSA! Just to be clear before imaginations run rampant: while Carroll’s
friendships with children might have been unusual, there is ZERO
evidence to suggest that Carroll’s friendships with, or photographs of,
children were in any way inappropriate or nefarious. All evidence
suggests he simply felt most at ease in their presence considering his
many limitations in the adult world.]
In 1856, classics scholar
Henry George Liddell accepted an appointment as Dean of Christ Church
(one of the colleges that comprise Oxford University), and brought his
three daughters to live with him at Oxford.
Carroll quickly became
close with Lorina, Alice, and Edith Liddell, and during their frequent
afternoon boat trips on the river, Carroll told the Liddells fanciful
tales. Alice quickly became Carroll’s favorite of the three girls, and
he made her the subject of the stories that would later became Alice’s
Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass. Almost ten years
after first meeting the Liddells, Carroll compiled the stories and
submitted the completed manuscript for publication.
But, as is
the bittersweet truth of life, time marched on. By the time the books
were published, Alice and her sisters had grown into young women, and
their parents were more interested in their daughters pursing suitable
marriages than in playing childish games and spending “golden
afternoons” on the Thames with Carroll. Carroll was heartbroken, and
just as Through the Looking-Glass was published, he completed an
acrostic poem titled “A Boat Beneath a Sunny Sky” comprised of Alice’s
full name that was an ode to her, her sisters, and the golden time in
which their lives all intersected.
To read Alice is to follow a
talking rabbit into a rabbit hole. It is to remember that
childhood—like spring— is not only growth, but change, expansion, and
wildness. The tulips, like the Queen of Hearts, are imperious. The
mushrooms might alter your size. And the language! Carroll’s linguistic
play is like a garden in itself: fertile, looping, delightfully
ungovernable. Alice is always teetering on the edge of what makes sense,
and she meets each absurdity with the kind of dry resolve that is, in
its way, heroic. Wonderland does not reward logic—but it does reward
nerve.
2. The Overstory by Richard Powers
In June, trees are full, heaving with life, and everything feels lush and vital. Reading this novel while immersed in the sights and sounds of summer turns your surroundings into part of the experience. The Overstory is a sweeping, powerful, sprawling, and deeply resonant novel about the secret life of forests will deepen your wonder (and guilt) every time you pass a tree. As June offers longer days that give us the opportunity to slow down and think deeply, this book beckons for your deepest attention.
Without being preachy, the book quietly (and sometimes loudly) shifts the reader's perspective toward the environment. It deals with eco-activism, ethical protest, and the desperation that arises when nature’s majesty is treated as disposable. By the end, many readers find themselves changed in how they see nature — and humanity’s place in it.
At its heart, The Overstory is a love letter to trees — their intelligence, longevity, memory, and the way they communicate underground through roots and fungal networks (what scientists call the "wood wide web"). Powers takes something we see every day and reframes it as ancient, majestic, and nearly sentient. The novel isn’t told through a single protagonist, but rather through nine interwoven characters, each with their own unique path that eventually intersects with the others—much like the highway of tree roots beneath the soil. It feels like watching a forest grow: each branch (or character arc) matters, but it’s the total ecosystem that stuns you.
3. The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
Ah, June. Our gal.
For my money The Handmaid’s Tale is evergreen, resonating cataclysmically int he modern era, making it an essential read 365 days of the year. Atwood’s dystopian novel imagines a future in which women’s rights have been stripped away, and fertile women are forced into the role of child-bearers in a theocratic society.
Atwood’s writing is chilling in its precision—her prose spare, her world-building rich with haunting detail. But a sneaky literary truth is that our protagonist’s name (now erased in Gilead, as she goes by the name of her master Offred, meaning Of-Fred) very well might once have been June, making the book make the June list this month. Of course.
The “fact” of her name emerges in a chilling passage in Chapter 1 of the book. The passage describes the “Rachel and Leah Center” (a pro-natal birthing center where fertile women are kept for breeding) where the narrator of the story known simply as “Offred” has been sent for reeducation, along with other potential child-bearing women. The chapter ends with:
“We learned to whisper almost without sound. In the semi-darkness we could stretch out our arms, when the Aunts weren't looking, and touch each other's hands across space. We learned to lip-read, our heads flat on the beds, turned sideways, watching each other's mouths. In this way we exchanged names, from bed to bed:
Alma. Janine. Dolores. Moira. June.”
All the other women named in this passage, all of them except June, appear later in the story. If those were the only five women present, then by process of elimination, “June” must be the rightful name of our narrator, now known as Offred.
There are no other unidentified women's names in the rest of the book, so "June" is the only possibility for the narrator's first name for which there is any evidence. (The television series took this and ran with it, creating a vibrant backstory for Offred, developed into June Osborne.)
Read it. I also heartily recommend the audiobook narrated gorgeously by Clare Danes— who is a singular talent at audio narration. The novel’s exploration of power, gender, and control feels MORE urgent today than when it was first published in 1985.
A provocative, unforgettable exploration of what happens when women lose control over their bodies, minds and autonomy, The Handmaid’s Tale remains a crucial read for understanding the fragility of rights and the strength of resistance.
April books: the books you read with a window cracked open, letting in the smell of new grass. The kind you flip through lazily on a park bench, feeling virtuous for finally sitting outside. In April the days stretch, juuuust a little longer, and the first true rains of the season drum against the windows—not the relentless, chaotic, personality-disordered downpours of March, but the gentler, softer showers that turn the world green overnight.There’s something about this month—half spring, half something else—that calls for stories with a little moodiness.
- A big ol’ novel that shifts between sunlight and shadow. - A collection of poems that brims with the promise of newness; read in snippets, between peeks at the tulips. - A story that is best read with the window cracked open, so the smell of rain and freshly turned soil can mingle with the scent of well-worn pages. - A classic you’ve been meaning to get to, because April always feels like a fresh start (until you realize it’s just March with better PR).
And thus, it deserves books we reach for when the sky darkens at two in the afternoon, and you think, Well, if April is going to be like this, I might as well… READ.
So, in honor of the month of new beginnings, sudden downpours, and the eternal debate of jacket vs. no jacket, here are the best books to read in April—stories that bloom, that rain, that whisper of change.
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1. The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnim
I know I know I know—I have listed this novella in my “Spring Reads” collection, but how can I neglect re-mentioning it? A novel about escaping from one April to another—specifically, to an Italian villa bursting with wisteria from the gloomy rain of "between the wars" London.
A story of blossoms forming where one was certain of a branch’s death.
A story of second chances.
A perfect, dreamy read for when you’re longing for warmth but still stuck in sweater weather.
2. Spring by Ali Smith Smith’s novel is like April itself—unexpected, shifting, unruly, full of thaw and tension. A meditation on art, politics, and the changing seasons, it’s part of her Seasonal Quartet but stands beautifully on its own. Ali Smith’s novel is both fiercely political and deeply lyrical, weaving together fractured narratives of disconnection and rebirth. Like the month of April itself, Spring resists simplicity. It is not just a celebration of renewal; it is an interrogation of it.
Smith’s writing pulses with the restless energy of the season. She juxtaposes stark realities—immigration detention centers, Brexit-era disillusionment—with moments of sudden, almost mythic beauty. A lost filmmaker, a cynical older man, and a mysterious girl moving through the world like a force of nature—all collide in a story that feels as unpredictable as April’s shifting weather. Smith writes in a way that mimics spring’s own rhythms: fragmented yet whole, sharp yet tender, unafraid of moments of stillness before sudden, torrential movement. To read Spring in April is to be reminded that the season’s promise is not gentle; it is urgent.
But what makes Spring the perfect April novel is its insistence on possibility. Smith, like the season itself, is relentless in her belief that change is coming—even if it arrives in fits and starts, even if it is difficult, even if it asks us to reckon with the past before moving forward. April is a threshold, a moment when we must decide whether to step through or turn back. Spring is a book that urges us to step through. It does not offer easy answers, but it offers something better: the certainty that something new is always just about to begin.
3."As One Listens to Rain by Octavio Paz A single, stunning poem that captures the feeling of April rain—not just falling, but soaking into memory and thought. A reminder that poetry belongs to spring as much as birdsong does.
Spring has always been the season of poets—and Octavio Paz, with his relentless curiosity and lyric precision, is a perfect guide for this awakening. "As One Listens to Rain" one of his lesser-known but deeply evocative works, reads like a meditation on transience, a book where each page shimmers with April’s dual nature: beauty and uncertainty, light and shadow. The title alone suggests something more than mere precipitation—it suggests an atmosphere, a presence, a self dissolving and reforming in the rain. His language does not settle; it moves, like water, through history, myth, and personal reflection.
In"As One Listens to Rain," he writes of love as something fluid, time as something porous, identity as something always in motion. This is poetry for the in-between spaces. Paz was a poet obsessed with thresholds, with the liminal, with the moment just before something becomes something else. And what is April if not a threshold?
4. A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara This one is a heavy hitter—if you’re looking for an emotionally intense reading experience, A Little Life is a stunning and, at times, painful masterpiece. Following four college friends as they navigate their adult lives in New York City, the story zeroes in on Jude, whose traumatic past emerges slowly, layer by devastating layer.
Yanagihara’s writing is visceral, unflinching in its depiction of suffering and survival, and yet there’s a strange beauty in her exploration of friendship, loyalty, and the human need for connection. It’s a novel that stays with you long after you've finished it, one that might make you rethink what love and friendship mean. Perfect for a long, reflective read.
5. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard
No one Pays Attention like Annie Dillard. April is a month of noticing, and no book teaches the art of attention better than Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Annie Dillard’s Pulitzer Prize-winning meditation on nature is, at its heart, a book about seeing—about standing still long enough for the world to reveal itself in all its teeming, chaotic, exquisite detail. And what is spring if not the perfect time to learn to see again?
Dillard’s writing crackles— she does not merely observe the natural world; she interrogates it, turns it over in her hands, studies it with the curiosity of a scientist and the wonder of a mystic. She watches frogs being swallowed alive by giant water bugs, muses on the violent abundance of a newly hatched praying mantis nest, and kneels in reverence before a floodplain crawling with new life. Her prose— almost incantatory—mirrors April itself, a season of bursting and breaking, of terrible beauty and raw becoming. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek’s world is churning, restless, alive in ways both thrilling and unsettling.
But perhaps what makes this book most suited to this time of year is its deep, abiding sense of wonder. Dillard does not shy away from the brutal mechanics of nature, but she never loses her awe. She reminds us that the world is strange, that it is extravagant, that it is—despite all its cruelties—staggeringly beautiful.
- play an entire set of American Vaudeville and English Hall variety songs on the ukulele
- spend a night stargazing in the Sahara
- play the accordion, virtuosically
- see the Northern Lights in Iceland
- spend Shabbat in Tzfat
- witness birds migrating
- scuba dive
- drive a race car
- travel the length of Japan by train
- make mosaic artworks (I’d especially like to beautify broken urban spaces like Emenem, It’s so inspiring to make the work a better and more beautiful place, one pothole at a time)
- spend an entire month in silence, in the literal or proverbial woods, living at the speed of a poet
As March arrives, bringing with it the promise of early spring, Women's History Month, and the festive revelry of St. Patrick’s Day. The literary world offers us tales of renewal, strength, and history. This month, we celebrate not only the invigorating green of the season but also the empowering stories of women throughout history.
Daylight is adding up, about three minutes more each day as March progresses, give or take. Spring hasn’t arrived yet, but the plane is circling the tarmac. Welcome back, light! This time of year is The Great Unclenching, for when the light returns, something unclenches in us all.
March offers the perfect opportunity to dive into novels that inspire and enrich. Here’s a carefully curated list of books that will fill your days with literary joy, perfect for curling up with during those first glimpses of warmth.
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March Theme: Women’s History Month
Women are amazing. Good Gd how we hate them. Let's uplift them instead.
1. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
Little Women remains one of the most beloved and enduring classics of all time. The story follows the March sisters—Jo, Meg, Beth, and Amy—through the trials and triumphs of their adolescence and early adulthood during the Civil War.
There is a certain magic in Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women that no film adaptation—no matter how lovingly crafted—can fully capture. The silver screen has given us many beautiful versions, from the golden glow of the 1933 and 1949 classics to the heart-wrenching performances of the 1994 and 2019 renditions, but nothing compares to the original novel, with its gorgeous prose, recognizable characters, effortless warmth, wisdom, and its deeply personal intimacy.
Alcott doesn’t just tell the story of the March sisters—she invites us into their magical attic, lets us sit by the fire as Jo scribbles away long in to the night, as Meg dreams of simple, beautiful things, as Amy yearns for greatness, and as Beth’s quiet kindness radiates through the pages. The novel pulses with life, with all the small joys and sorrows that make up a girlhood, and it is this depth—this richness is what truly makes Little Women not just a beloved book, but one of the great literary classics in the canon.
For at its heart, Little Women is about the messy, bittersweet journey of growing up—about the triumphs and disappointments, the laughter and heartbreak that shape us into who we become. Who hasn’t felt Jo’s frustration as she cries, “I’m angry nearly every day of my life!”? Who hasn’t longed to leave their mark on the world, or wrestled with duty and desire when torn between home and ambition?
2. "The Yellow Wallpaper" by Charlotte Perkins Gilman
Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s masterpiece novella is a fever
dream wrapped in the suffocating folds of Victorian domesticity. The protagonist, suffering from what is diagnosed as a “nervous
condition,” is confined to a room in her home by her husband, where she
becomes obsessed with the room's yellow wallpaper.
Written in 1892, the story explores the mental and physical confinement of women in the 19th century, it is a tale
that simultaneously drones with claustrophobia and crackles with the desperation
of a woman unraveling beneath the weight of total oppression.
From the very first lines, we are drawn into a world where the walls themselves seem to whisper, where the sickly yellow of the wallpaper morphs into a living, breathing tormentor. This is not just a tale of one woman’s descent into madness—it is a searing indictment of a society that silences and stifles, that mistakes a mind in turmoil for mere female "hysteria." Every creeping tendril of the wallpaper, every shadow shifting in the dim light, becomes a manifestation of our narrator’s struggle; her rebellion simmering beneath layers of repression until it spills over in a dizzying, mesmerizing climax.
What makes The Yellow Wallpaper so hauntingly unforgettable is its intimacy—the way Gilman locks us inside the narrator’s fractured psyche, forcing us to see the world as she does, to feel her isolation as palpably as the stale air of her sickroom. The language is hypnotic, looping and circling like the patterns on the cursed wallpaper itself, mirroring the slow dissolution of self that takes place within those four walls.
And when, at last, the narrator succumbs to the madness that has been tightening its grip around her soul, we are left breathless, horrified, yet strangely exhilarated. Gilman doesn’t just tell a story; she drags us into the heart of a nightmare that feels all too real: a cautionary tale that still resonates fiercely today.
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March Theme: St. Patrick’s Day
There are too many exquisite Irish novels, plays and collections of poetry to even begin to narrow them down. From classics such as Dubliners, Star of the Sea and The Country Girls, to contemporary classics like Angela’s Ashes, there is nothing quite like an Irish writer talking about LIFE.
3. Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt
As St. Patrick’s Day approaches, what better choice than Frank McCourt’s memoir Angela’s Ashes, a heartbreaking yet darkly humorous look at the author’s impoverished childhood in 20th-century Ireland. ButFrank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes is not just a memoir—it’s a symphony
of sorrow and resilience that transforms
even the bleakest of childhoods into something fiercely beautiful. With
prose that sings like an Irish ballad—both mournful and full of
unexpected humor—McCourt paints a portrait of Limerick that is as
rain-soaked and poverty-stricken as it is brimming with life.
Every page pulses with the raw, unfiltered voice of a boy who endures hunger, loss, and shame, yet somehow never loses his wide-eyed wonder at the world. “When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all,” he begins, and from that moment, we are swept into a story whose power lies in its stark refusal to submit to self pity or to sentimentality; in its ability to find poetry in the gutters and grace in the struggle. It is not just a memoir—it is a testament to survival, to storytelling, and to the indomitable spirit of those who dare to dream beyond their circumstances.
4. Ulysses by James Joyce
Ulysses was first serialized in parts in the American journal The Little Review from March 1918 to December 1920. It has been called one of the most important works of Modernist literature. No other book captures the soul of Dublin with such ferocity and
tenderness, stitching together the passage of Leopold Bloom through Dublin during an ordinary day, 16 June 1904,
with a depth and complexity that transforms the ordinary into the epic. To read Ulysses is to walk the streets of Dublin in 1904, to feel the
rain on your face, to hear the chatter of pub-goers and the distant
tolling of church bells, to live inside the thoughts of characters.
James Joyce’s Ulysses is not just the crown jewel of Irish
literature—it is its beating heart, its wildest dream, its most defiant
and dazzling creation. Joyce hammered a job on the novel so complete that he became a category unto himself. This is a novel that dares to contain multitudes—history and myth,
comedy and heartbreak, the sacred and the profane—all flowing together
in an intoxicating stream of consciousness that changed literature
forever.
Every literary style was mist to his grill, as he might have said, and his plotting, if such it can be called - two men who take all day to meet each other - paved the way for, among others, Samuel Beckett.
Above all he taught every writer the importance of naturalistic dialogue; with his fine tenor voice Joyce knew better than most that we read not with the eye but with the ear.
And yet, Ulysses is more than just an ode to Dublin—it is the very soul of Irish literary ambition; the book that shattered conventions and redefined what a novel could be. Joyce takes the English language, that instrument of colonial rule, and bends it to his will, infusing it with the rhythms of Irish speech, the poetry of everyday thought, the sheer audacity of a mind unchained. It is a book that demands everything from its reader, but in return, it gives back a universe— in which a single day can contain all of human existence.
“Yes I said yes I will Yes,” Molly Bloom declares in the novel’s final, breathtaking lines, and in that moment, Joyce doesn’t just conclude a masterpiece—he affirms life itself, in all its messiness, all its beauty, all its infinite possibility.
If one book must stand as the pinnacle of the Irish literary canon, let it be Ulysses.
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March Theme: The Ides of March
With this addition, Julius Caesar rounds out the list perfectly, infusing the month of March with both the classic weight of Shakespearean tragedy and a timely nod to the historical moment that defines it.
5. Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare
March is synonymous with the ominous "Ides of March," and what better way to dive into the drama of fate, ambition, and betrayal than with William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar? Julius Caesar—the mighty general and leader of Rome—is on
the verge of absolute power, but a group of conspirators led by Brutus
and Cassius believes his rule will bring tyranny. While this ticking-time-bomb of a play is set in the heart of ancient Rome, it reads (and plays!) like "DC Noir" made popular on television in the 21st Century. It explores the tension
between personal loyalty and political duty through the all-too-human lenses of loyalists and conspirators.
William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar is so much more than "just "a history play—it is a timeless political thriller; a study of power, ambition, and the chaos that ensues when the line between patriotism and personal ambition blurs. And in 2025, as the world grapples with populist movements, political conspiracies, misinformation, high emotions and a desperate common man, the ever-present question of who truly wields power reveals that this classic feels more relevant than ever.
The fickleness of the Roman crowd, swayed so easily from love to uncontrollable rage, mirrors the way modern public opinion shifts with a single headline or viral video. “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings,” Cassius warns, and his words ring truer than ever in an era where leaders rise and fall within 24-hour news cycles at the whims of public perception. The senators, believing they act in Rome’s best interest, justify their actions with noble rhetoric, yet their violence only breeds more instability—a cautionary tale for any modern political upheaval.
Even more striking is the play’s exploration of the power of speech, leveraged emotions, and misinformation, something that resonates in an age dominated by social media and manipulated narratives. Mark Antony’s funeral oration is a masterclass in persuasion, as he subtly turns the crowd against the conspirators without ever directly condemning them: “I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.” What follows is a perfect example of how a skilled orator can bend public sentiment to his will, a lesson we see played out daily in modern media and politics. Observe Damien Lewis deliver Marc Anthony's eulogy-as-political-excoriation, here:
The chaos that erupts in the wake of Caesar’s death, where reason is drowned out by outrage, echoes our contemporary political divisions as they spiral into violence, dis and misinformation, and violent power struggles. Shakespeare’s Rome is not so different from our world in 2025—ambition, manipulation, and the ever-looming question of who truly holds power remain as urgent and dangerous as ever.
Ah,
February. The month of winter’s last gasp, of small joys, and, yes, of
love—whether it’s the romantic, the familial, or the self-love that
comes from curling up with a good book.
To help you make the most of
these cozy, cold evenings, here are five books that should take you on
unforgettable journeys. From classic tales of unrequited love to
dazzling modern narratives, these picks will keep your heart warm as the
chill lingers outside.
Love can blossom where you least expect it. At least that seems to be the case in Sarah Waters’s twist-and-turn Victorian masterpiece, Fingersmith.
The novel tells the story of Sue Trinder, an orphan, abandoned as an
infant in the care of Mrs. Sucksby, a conniving and resourceful ‘baby
farmer,' whose bread and butter comes from raising children to become
petty thieves—fingersmiths—in London' notorious East End.
Sue’s world changes
forever when 'Gentleman,' a sophisticated con-man arrives
with a tantalizing proposition. He offers her the chance to take part
in a clever ploy to steal the inheritance of Maud Lilly, an isolated and
vulnerable heiress, by posing as her maid and encouraging her to marry
Gentleman.
But nothing is quite how it seems. Sue and Maud soon
kindle an unlikely friendship that becomes a passionate love affair.
Waters is peerless in how she crafts exhilarating and unforgettable journeys through the
Victorian underworld, filled with villains, deception, debauchery and,
ultimately, love.
2. The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro
Not all love stories have happy endings. Some, in fact, barely even have beginnings, such as in Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel The Remains of the Day.
There is something about February’s subtle melancholy that makes The Remains of the Day
a perfect fit. Ishiguro’s subtle, almost painful prose will transport
you deep into the life of Stevens, an English butler. Stevens has devoted his
entire existence to service, and the story follows him as he reflects on the
misguided loyalty of his past and attempts to reconnect with Ms Kenton,
the housekeeper who worked alongside him— the woman he desperately
loved, but for whom he never dared crossed a professional line.
While
Stevens hopes for a resolution at their reunion, Ms Kenton alludes to
what might have been but concludes ‘there’s no turning back the clock
now. One can’t be forever dwelling on what might have been’.
As
Stevens reflects on his past in a long, meandering road trip across the
English countryside, the narrative reveals the complexities of duty,
missed opportunities, and suppressed emotions. Ishiguro’s
prose is— like Stevens’
emotions— buried deep beneath the surface, ready to surface in
poignant moments that will linger long after you’ve turned the final
page.
And
so one of literature’s most heartbreaking love stories ends with a
devastating whimper.
February Theme: Black History Month (because here at London Still, Al is still celebrating diversity because I am not threatened by thoughts, histories and ideas that might de-center my own lived experience or, Gd forbid, possibly make me the slightest bit uncomfortable...rant over. For now.)
2. "Beloved" by Toni Morrison
February is the perfect month to dive into Toni Morrison’s Beloved, a novel whose beauty lies in its raw, unapologetic exploration of the dark, terrible legacy of the enslaved people of the United States. Set in post-Civil War Ohio, Beloved follows Sethe, an escaped enslaved woman who is haunted by the ghost of her dead daughter.
Morrison’s writing is both lyrical and haunting—each sentence is a carefully wrought piece of art. The narrative swings between hauntingly beautiful prose and brutal truths, making for a reading experience that is as exhausting as it is revelatory. This is a book that demands your full attention, and rewards you with layers of meaning in return. If you haven’t read Beloved yet, February is the month to do it.
February Theme: Lunar New Year (and yes, I know that sometimes Lunar New Year is in January.)
Lunar New Year is a time for reflection, celebration, and renewal (and DUMPLINGS) making it an ideal occasion to explore books with Asian characters or themes. For me personally, being married to a Chinese-American makes me plump for Chinese-forward picks, but the Asian literary canon is infinite in its richness and rewards–it would be impossible to choose.
However, choose I must, and below are two exceptional reads that offer profound insight into Chinese culture, history, and the human experience and each offer a rich and varied portrait of life, love, and the pursuit of meaning. They also happen to be stalwarts of world literature.
4. The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan
Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club is a masterful exploration of the generational divides between Chinese-American mothers and their daughters. Told through the interconnected stories of eight women, the novel spans decades, alternating between the perspectives of the mothers, who arrived in America as immigrants, and their daughters, who grapple with the weight of their cultural heritage.
Tan’s writing is deeply empathetic, her prose rich with the nuances of family dynamics, identity, and the immigrant experience. Each chapter captures the delicate interplay of hope, sacrifice, and love, weaving an intricate tapestry of Chinese-American life that’s as heartwarming as it is heartbreaking.
The Joy Luck Club is an enduring work that beautifully portrays the complexities of the immigrant experience and the delicate ties that bind generations together.
5. The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane by Lisa See
Lisa See’s The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane is an exquisite exploration of family, tradition, and identity, set in the lush, remote mountains of China. The novel follows Li-yan, a young girl from an ethnic minority group in the far southwest of China, whose life is deeply shaped by the ancient traditions surrounding tea cultivation. As Li-yan grows up, her life is marked by love, loss, and the complex relationship between personal ambition and cultural heritage.
See’s writing is lyrical and immersive, drawing on the beauty of the Chinese landscape while delving into the complex social structures that define Li-yan’s world. The novel is also a poignant exploration of motherhood, with themes of separation and reconciliation as Li-yan’s path crosses with that of her daughter, whom she must give up.
The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane is a heart-wrenching and thought-provoking read that will transport you to a world that is both timeless and strikingly contemporary.
February’s
slow, still air offers the perfect backdrop for diving into these
books, each of which brings something unique. Curl up in a corner,
drink your hot cocoa, and lose yourself in these extraordinary tales.
You’ll emerge from the month not just with the memory of a good book,
but with a deeper understanding of the human heart—both its beauty and
its flaws.
Alec is currently in Edinburgh for all of August, for the third year in a row. It’s been quite the year of time apart— we will really only been together in bursts of 3-14 days from March til September. It’s been tough, but a challenge we are more than capable of rising to— after all, our love was born of, and fostered within, long-distance. Plus, it is an incredible indicator of our mutual professional/artistic abundance this year. Yay abundance.
All that said? I freaking miss him. And wanted a chance to list a few things I love about him— large and small. I love Alec. And you know I love me a list.
So. Without further ado
Alec:
- has a deep, deep love for theatre and will discuss it at length with anyone, any time, any place
- is always up for a walk on our "favorite streets," always (I mean always)
- is always up for a laugh, always (I mean always)
- has a deep, deep love for board games and will discuss them at length with anyone, any time, any place (even strangers… in line at the grocery store)
- has the actual kindest eyes that sparkle like diamonds when he smiles therefore reducing me to a drippy pool of goo
- wakes me every morning with a kiss on the forehead and the question “will you be mine today?”
- he tells me I'm pretty, even when it is abundantly obvious that "pretty" is not what is happening, lol
- quite charmingly, does not really care about “sportsball” but cares a great deal about fantasy football (and extra charmingly, he once asked me what the “symbol” on my Tigers baseball t-shirt was to my extraordinary delight. Don’t worry, Detroiters: I set him straight)
- makes an out-of-this world traditional stir fry (it is apparently very important to use day-old rice)
- makes an equally out-of-this-world egg of any variety
- is, was, and continues to be very supportive about my Jewishness in all its iterations and colors and shapes and never gets judgey or squeamish about the word “G-d” and is always up to try new things and learn new things with chutzpah
- loves board games more than any person I have ever, ever known. So much so that he texts his best friend henry out of absolutely nowhere to explain in detail a special move he made in a board game he played by himself, and though the boxes of games have taken over our entire 800 square foot home, it is worth it to see his glee.
- sends me pictures of Tati even when we are all in the same room
- is the biggest, most passionate, most genuinely enthusiastic cheerleader to everyone he loves without a scrap of comparison or envy or anything other than astonishing genuine enthusiasm and celebration.
- really hates to be wet (and will avoid activities with the excuse ".........sounds wet")
- puts so much love into the dinners he makes us, I swear I can taste the actual love like it is an additional spice
- is a bonafide master at playlist compilation assemblage AND naming (I'm telling you his skill level in this arena is wholly unmatched)
- is just so good— and I mean so, so staggeringly good— at being a Cat Dad
- is very very brave about his big big feelings
- truly appreciates when we go to a musical and I explain in staggering Wikipedia-like detail the entire history of the musical 5 minutes before it begins.
- takes longer than anyone I have ever known to hang something on a wall. A mirror, a frame. A hanging plant— my Gd. I bet he breaks records for h o w f r e a k i n g l o n g it takes him to hang a thing. Bless him. But it’s always straight as hell.
- knows that my favorite flowers are ranunculus and when he cannot buy me an actual ranunculus, sends me photos of them “just because”
- will pull over (in a nanosecond) to do something fun
- teaches me every single day (without being a jerk about it) about how to expand my thinking, empathy and capacity to connect with humanity, and also encourages people to be their very highest selves.
- is not afraid of taking giant, big, scary leaps into the unknown
- has *that* gene where he is incredibly good with little kids (and it isn’t put on, or dumbed down— just a genuine joy spent playing)
- kisses like whoa
- will drop whatever he is doing when you tell him you are feeling down and do whatever it takes to ease the moment (sometimes that includes telling a story, sometimes a distraction, and sometimes just holding you in silence)
Oh London. I have returned. I am new. I am unchanged. The World is altered. The World is the same.
Standing in on the same patch of the South Bank I stood upon on March
16, 2020 -- the day before the world closed down, and seeing that the
river, the bridges, the city, the sky-- are all still here.
I will never tire of a stroll through Borough Market and the bells of Southwark Cathedral.
Reunion with my dearest London pals the day before rehearsal. So much has changed. So much has not.
Finding this "Banksy" on my walk to work...
Marvelling how every. single. item is literally exactly where we left it 18 months ago...
- a great deal of "clothing optional" swimming and sunbathing. Not sorry at all.
- A glorious trip to San Francisco centered around the LGBTQAI+ journey and history in this historic city.
- Eating delicious bao and dim sum in downtown San Francisco
- A foggy drive across the Golden Gate bridge whilst listening to this...
- Meeting my new friend and teacher, poet Thomas Centolella for the first time IRL (a friendship born, believe it or not, of this very blog!)
- meeting my new friend and soul-sister Leta from ^ Tom's poetry class (because even though I attend online from New York, the class is held at College of Marin County... where I am as we speak. Fate!)
- Muir Woods. ....Magic.
- Tati being extra
- beautiful drives
- introversion paradise
- marveling at a mask-less California (is this... the Time Before?!)
- seeing so very many hummingbirds
- writing poems
- reading Phillip Pullman's The Amber Spyglass on audio-book as we float in the pool.
- Drinking wine flights in Sausalito with my love
- meeting important people to Alec who now live in NoCal.
- cooking so many delicious things from the farmer's market
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