Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates

Ta-Nehisi Coates wrote this book—part love letter, part polemic—for his 14-year-old son, Samori. He wrote in an outpouring of protectiveness and anguish, trying to explain to him a world—well, a country, a society—that is a constant danger to them both, in a way that his son might understand.

So that his son might, maybe, be a little safer? I don’t think Mr. Coates believes that there’s much his son, or any African American, can do to keep himself safe in this society, steeped as it is in institutional racism. So that his son can at least avoid the trap of self-hatred or internalized racism, maybe. So that his son can see the world around him more clearly than Ta-Nehisi did at his age, certainly.

And so that his son knows, now and forever, how precious and loved he is. And that there is, if not hope, at least beauty and meaning in this world—not only outside of America, though traveling to France was life-changing for Mr. Coates and his family, but also, and most importantly, within his own culture. This book is, among other things, a love letter: not just to his son, but also to his fellow black Americans, survivors all.

I am not the intended audience of this book. Nonetheless I felt it was important to read it, if only in order to bear witness to Mr. Coates’ reality. And one brings oneself to one's reading, just as I bring my point of view to this review; one can't help it. I read it as someone who hasn’t had to deal with racism on top of all the other -isms I face, but I also read it as the parent of a 14-year-old who will face -isms I never foresaw when I first became a parent. And my point of view has expanded: my eyes are clearer. I'm grateful for that.

It may be an odd comparison, but in a way, this book reminds me of Allen Ginsburg’s famous poem, Howl: it’s an intellectual torrent, beautiful and hideous and brave, simultaneously difficult to read and impossible to put down. Unlike Ginsburg's poetry, though, Mr. Coates’ prose is diamond-hard, relentless, and pitiless—as it must be. It’s also insightful and lush and lyrical and heartbreakingly full of love.

Don't let the difficulty of the subject matter put you off reading this book. It requires much of the reader, but it gives back in kind. It’s required reading for our generation.

Fledgling by Octavia E. Butler

Imagine waking up in a cave, alone and horribly injured and with no memory of anything that happened before you woke up. First you just have to survive from one minute to the next, then from one hour to the next, and eventually, from day to day. But you don’t have the luxury to just focus on healing; if you’re going to survive, you need to learn who wanted you dead, and why.

This is how Fledgling opens. Our protagonist is a remarkable, intelligent, strikingly self-possessed and resourceful young woman who also happens not to be human. A creature of some kind wanders into the cave where she lies injured and alone. She kills it with her bare hands, eats it, and begins to heal immediately—and that's how we learn that she’s not only a vulnerable girl who is in terrible danger, but is also capable of being very, very dangerous herself.

This is Octavia Butler’s last novel and, in my opinion, her masterpiece. It’s a work of literary fiction that starts out as a mystery, then becomes a vampire novel, then a work of science fiction—and finally it wraps up as a courtroom drama. Butler doesn't so much transcend genre as bend it to her formidable storytelling talents. And the story is hugely entertaining and tightly-woven.

This was my second time through this book, and I’d forgotten just how good it is. Butler was such a master. Here she explores her usual themes of what it means to be female and black, the nature of humanity, what it does to people to be “othered,” and what it does to people to do the “othering.” She does this absolutely seamlessly, in the context of a gripping story set in a very recognizable California among very real people.

So much literature is tough to chew on and hard to digest. Butler’s work reminds one that there is literature—meaningful, multilayered, deeply intellectually satisfying writing that leaves room for as much thought as the reader wants to bring to it—that is also a pure pleasure to read. The concepts are laid out in a gorgeous, stimulating feast that also happens to be perfectly nourishing. 

Read this book! It'll never, ever make it to the screen, for reasons that will be obvious to any reader but which I won't spoil for you here. So if you want the story—and you do—you'll have to read it. If you'd rather be read to, the audiobook version, narrated by Tracey Leigh, leaves absolutely nothing to be desired.

If you still want more convincing, read this review—it’s fantastic.