Looking for a great read? The Tufts community has more than 35 fiction and nonfiction choices for you
As we head into summer, the Tufts community has another wide-ranging selection of books for you—recent fiction bestsellers, classics, mysteries, histories and memoirs, and even some self-help suggestions for impending retirees.
Read on and enjoy. And for faculty, staff, and students, don’t forget that many of these books are available at the Tufts libraries.
If you have other suggestions for summer reading, let us know at now@tufts.edu, and we’ll post an update.
FICTION
The Biotech Murders, by Ronenn Roubenoff. If you are looking for a book that will engross you from the outset and has numerous unexpected twists and turns, this is the one for you. The setting is a fictional Boston area-based biotechnology company. The book starts with the discovery of something very odd in a local state park, a dead body wrapped in blue lab-grade plastic. But no more revelations about the specifics of the plot! Once the initial situation seems to get clarified, another body is discovered, adding new complexities. In parallel to the mysterious murderers, unexpected connections emerge among some of the protagonists, resulting in revelations about long-buried secrets. There will be characters you like and characters you don’t like, perhaps some you identify with and some you don’t. A wide range of common human traits, good and bad, are exhibited, as in real life. The only drawback of the book is that once you start it, it’s hard to put down. —Alice H. Lichenstein, Stanley N. Gershoff Professor of Nutrition Science and Policy; senior scientist and leader, Diet & Chronic Disease Prevention for Healthy Aging directive, HNRCA at Tufts University; and Distinguished Professor
The Book of Lost Names, by Kristin Harmel. One of my favorite “libraries” is the one on the enclosed porch of a friend’s summer cottage. Lined with bookcases and dotted with cozy reading spots, I easily lose track of time there, and often discover older gems I missed when they first came out. That’s where I found The Book of Lost Names, a novel published in 2020. Set during World War II, the story follows Eva, a semi-retired librarian who is pulled back into her past after recognizing a photograph in an article about a mysterious book looted by the Nazis. As a young Jewish woman in occupied France, Eva fled Paris and joined a network of forgers creating false identities to help Jewish children escape deportation. In secret, she and a fellow forger developed a coded system to preserve the children’s real names so their identities would not be lost. As Eva reflects on love, sacrifice, family, and survival, I was drawn into her journey, which is heartbreaking, hopeful, and suspenseful. Novels like this remind us of the Holocaust and why it’s still so important to remember the lessons it taught us. —Sandy Bosco, senior associate director of stewardship and donor relations, University Advancement
The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen. This book is one of those rare works that is both funny and deeply devastating. The novel opens with a view into the anxieties of an aging Midwestern couple and their relationship with their three adult children. It then traces each of these relationships from a different perspective, touching on themes of illness, disappointment, and the passage of time. But more than anything else, the novel does a remarkable job of situating an intimate family drama in a broader portrait of late 20th-century (and early 21st century) America and its underlying social fabric. Perhaps what makes The Corrections so compelling is Franzen’s ability to write flawed, complicated characters with an astonishing level of empathy. Every family interaction, every affection, resentment, and misunderstanding, feels painfully recognizable. The novel is wonderfully observant about experiences of ambition and aging, and the often impossible expectations we place on ourselves and those closest to us. Despite its length, it is consistently engaging. I listened to it over the course of a five-day long road trip, and it stayed with me long after I finished: not because it offered easy answers, but possibly because it was so honest in capturing the messy contradictions of human nature. It is probably of the finest contemporary novels I’ve read this year. —Fahd Humayun, assistant professor, Department of Political Science
The Correspondent, by Virginia Evans. Don’t take my word for it—Reading Rainbow style—bestselling author Ann Patchett calls this debut “subtly told and finely made” and a true “cause for celebration.” If you haven’t read it, now’s the time. Delivered in epistolary format, the novel introduces Sybil Van Antwerp, septuagenarian and retired lawyer whose sharp, observant voice comes through in correspondence with family, friends, a university professor, troubled teen, customer service rep, and even director George Lucas. Some exchanges are laugh-out-loud funny, such as her war of words with a fellow garden club member, while others reveal deeply personal struggles with grief, regret, forgiveness, and aging. Author Virginia Evans notes that while Sybil’s devotion to letter writing is a beautiful habit, her carefully curated voice conceals complexities beneath—reminding readers how much can be hidden within an “edited self.” Fans of 84, Charing Cross Road and The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, and both active and aspirational correspondents, this book is for you! —Susannah Krenn, assistant director, communications & marketing / career advisor, Tufts Career Center
Counting Our Way to Maine, by Maggie Smith. This time of year always transports me back to summers in Maine. Suddenly I’m a kid in the back seat, driving home from the beach with the windows down. Salty air fills the car, cooling my slightly sunburned face as I drift toward sleep. And no book reminds me of those feelings more than Counting Our Way to Maine by Maggie Smith. This delightful picture book follows one baby, two dogs, and the rest of the family as they head to Maine for summer fun. Originally published in 1995, it was a staple of my sister’s and my bedtime routine before any trip north. What makes Counting Our Way to Maine so endearing are the beautiful watercolor illustrations. Each page invites you to explore a whimsical snapshot and search for the corresponding number of items hidden throughout. Whether counting bicycles, bathroom breaks, or nosy deer, the scenes capture both the calm and joyful chaos of family vacations. One of my favorite spreads shows them making 16 blueberry pies. The kitchen is overflowing with dishes and ingredients, and everyone is helping in their own way, even the dogs. It’s funny, unapologetically real, and filled with tiny moments tucked into every corner. Now I’m excited to read this book with my toddler as she learns to count to 20, and we create new memories around a story that I grew up loving. I've honestly lost count of how many times I’ve read this book, but each time it brings me right back to Maine. —Shanley Daly, senior events coordinator, Tisch College
Death Valley, by Melissa Broder. This book, named a best book of the year by the New York Times in 2023, is narrated by a woman who is staying by herself at a Best Western hotel in a desert area of California. While there, or more exactly, while leaving there, she embarks on a nearby hike and gets lost with limited food and water. As we follow her on the hike, we witness the protagonist’s introspective journey to find balance and inner peace amid her father’s critical condition (he is in the ICU) and her husband’s worsening health. The style of the book can be described as mystical absurdist realism. While it explores the themes of anxiety, addition, and grief, it is easy to read, funny—complete with the heroine spending time inside of a giant cactus that does not exist. I admit, it was this bit about the cactus that drew me in. If you like books about surviving an existential crisis, you might enjoy Death Valley. —Zoya Davis-Hamilton, associate vice provost, research administration, Office of the Vice Provost for Research
Evensong, by Stewart O’Nan. The ladies who make up the Humpty Dumpty Club are loyal members of Calvary Church in Pittsburgh, most in their late 70s to late 80s. They are the glue that holds together their community of aging folks, running errands for the infirm and housebound, getting things done. There’s Emily (of O’Nan’s splendid Emily, Alone), the orderly, smart, fussy Republican with her newly sober daughter Margaret; Ailene, 89, never married and perfectly fine with that, now experiencing memory troubles and trying to hide it; Kitzi, taking over the reins of the Humpty Dumpty club and struggling with life’s responsibilities; and younger Susie, newly divorced in her early 60s and trying to start over. The storytelling is like a realist painting: so true to life that the art to create it seems effortless. We get to know and truly care about each of these ladies—and they would appreciate being called ladies—with their strengths, weaknesses, quirks, likes, and dislikes. They don’t see their community work as self-sacrifice—they are simply doing what needs to be done. O’Nan captures these very real people in their everyday lives, the quotidian details adding up to a rich, deeply felt portrait. —Taylor McNeil, senior news and audience engagement editor, University Communications and Marketing
Foster, by Claire Keegan. A couple of years ago, a friend sent me two novellas by Claire Keegan, Small Things Like These—which featured here last year—and Foster, a story of a young girl sent to stay on a farm for a summer in Co. Wexford, Ireland, while her mother navigates the final months of pregnancy. Through the unnamed girl’s sparse, matter-of-fact observations, we are slowly transported from a life of disarray and neglect at home with a feckless father and an overburdened mother to one of warmth and affection with her foster parents, the Kinsellas. In Keegan’s style, it is the steady accumulation of small acts of care that generates this emotional atmosphere rather than any grand gestures. They feed and clean her properly; they brush her hair and hold her hand and involve her in the daily rituals of farm life, most notably in the careful preparation of shared meals. In the background, as she learns through local gossip, is a family tragedy that still haunts the Kinsellas. But, if anything, grief and love are shown to be unlikely companions, two sides of the same coin. The story ends with an affirmation that children flourish with attentive care and that their love cannot be earned with indifference. Both books are written with Keegan’s hallmark economy of language—there is not a redundant word in either of them. Both books also deal with similar themes of small-town Irish life in the late 20th century. Perhaps because they arrived between the births of my own children, I read them both as odes to fatherhood as something that is practiced rather than assumed. The most stirring moment of each book occurs when care is extended to vulnerable children outside of the household. The book was adapted into an Irish language film, An Cailín Ciúin (The Quiet Girl), which was nominated for an Academy Award for Best International Feature Film in 2023. —Eoin McGuirk, J.C. Keogh and Family Assistant Professor, Department of Economics
Glorious Exploits, by Ferdia Lennon. Historical fiction set in Syracuse during the Peloponnesian War in which all the ancient Greeks speak in contemporary Irish dialect really shouldn’t work this well, and yet this was the best thing I’ve read so far this summer. Two out-of-work Sicilian potters, Lampo and his friend Gelon, decide to stage a production of two Euripides’ plays with the Athenian prisoners being held in the city’s quarry. It’s a novel about theater and war and poetry and prisoners, set in the aftermath of the Athenian defeat at Syracuse circa 413 BCE, a piece of history I knew nothing about beforehand. It’s not exactly a light summer read, but it’s very beautiful, and I was deeply moved by it. — Josephine Wolff, professor of cybersecurity policy and associate dean for research, The Fletcher School; professor of computer science, School of Engineering; and director of the Hitachi Center for Technology and International Affairs
The God of the Woods, by Liz Moore. The God of the Woods is a gripping literary mystery that blends suspense, family drama, and emotional depth. Set in the Adirondack mountains during the 1970s, the novel begins with the disappearance of 13-year-old Barbara Van Laar from a summer camp owned by her wealthy family. Her disappearance echoes the unsolved vanishing of her older brother years earlier, forcing long-buried secrets and tensions within the powerful Van Laar family to resurface. What makes this book especially compelling is the way Moore carefully layers the mystery with richly developed characters and themes of privilege, grief, and social class. The atmospheric camp setting adds to the tension, creating a haunting backdrop that keeps readers invested throughout the story. Rather than relying only on shocking twists, the novel focuses on the emotional impact of loss and the complicated relationships between family members and the surrounding community. I think this book is worth reading because it offers much more than a traditional thriller. It’s both suspenseful and thoughtful, with beautifully written prose and characters that feel real and complex. Readers who enjoy slow-burn mysteries with strong emotional storytelling will likely find this novel unforgettable. —Christine Fitzgerald, manager of service marketing and communications, Tufts Technology Services
Good People, by Patmeena Sabit. This book broke a long, dispiriting string of hyped debut novels that I’d be excited to learn were available for me at the library … and which I’d return, unfinished, the next day. Sabit has, by contrast, deployed a wide constellation of neighbors, friends, and family members to present a mystery about a tragic death that is propulsive, suspenseful, and compellingly complex. Her unsentimental examination of the intimate details of the lives of a “model” Afghan American family is the most assured and intelligent use of multiple perspectives I’ve read in years. You’re likely to find an onlooker whose sense of the tragedy you share, only to have your opinion upended by the very next outsider who weighs in on what has transpired. As soon as I finished Good People, I started recommending it to all the readers in my life. —Dave Nuscher, executive director, content and planning, University Communications and Marketing
Greedy, by Callie Kazumi. I learned about this novel from Dua Lipa’s Service95 Book Club. (Yes, that Dua Lipa. In addition to putting out great dance tracks, the singer is coming for Reese Witherspoon’s lunch with a solidly curated book club!) Greedy is set in Japan, as British ex-pat and compulsive gambler Ed finds himself in dangerous debt to the yakuza. The Japanese mob, so he takes on a well-paid private-chef gig for an older socialite and philanthropist. Slowly Ed realizes his culinary-obsessed employer is hiding something sinister. This is a slow-burn modern horror tale that weaves in complex themes around morality, wealth disparities, addiction, and biracial identity. It’s well worth a read for the creepy vibes, and will give you some food for thought (please forgive the terrible pun). —Amanda K. Rowley, senior director of marketing & communications, School of Arts and Sciences, Graduate School of Arts and Sciences, School of the Museum of Fine Arts at Tufts
I Capture the Castle, by Dodie Smith. In a recent what-to-read-next moment, I turned to my beloved, well-worn copy of I Capture the Castle. Written in 1948 by Dodie Smith (author of the famed The Hundred and One Dalmatians), this remains a universally loved classic. Through the whimsical first-person journal entries of Cassandra Mortmain (age 17), we are invited into the world of her highly eccentric family, who reside in a crumbling medieval castle in the English country village of Godsend. Her reclusive father James spends most of his time hidden away reading detective stories, living in the shadow of his one and only successful novel but refusing to write again after the death of his first wife. Cassandra’s stepmother Topaz is an arresting beauty, whose past bohemian life as an artist’s model in London has given way to daily struggles raising three stepchildren on little to no income, though she occasionally takes solace sneaking off to perform pagan rites of nature in the nude on the castle grounds. Cassandra’s older sister Rose (21), a beautiful and wistful figure who seems better suited for the times when their home was first built, is desperate to be married so she can rescue the family from their abject poverty. There’s also their younger brother Thomas (15), their bull terrier Heloïse, and their cat Abelard (another nod to medieval times). And finally, Stephen Colley (18), the son of a deceased servant, who lives alongside the Mortmains, nobly helping to keep the household running and holding a special devotion to Cassandra. Life takes a thrilling turn one stormy night when two handsome American brothers, Neil and Simon Cotton, appear at the door after their car has gotten stuck up the lane. As the family soon discovers, the Cottons are the new inheritors of Scoatney Hall, the wealthy estate on whose property the castle sits. Read on to find out what ensues, and I can promise that your heart will be warmed by this spirited, charming novel about family and new love. —Julia Keith, senior program administrator for communications and engagement, Tufts International Center
I Who Have Never Known Men, by Jacqueline Harpman, translated by Ros Schwartz. This book is almost impossible to explain without flattening it, but I’ll try anyway. Forty women are being held in an underground cage. They don’t know where they are, how they got there, or why. One day, the guards leave. The cage opens. The women emerge into a vast, empty landscape with no landmarks, no answers, and no one coming to explain things. The youngest woman (the narrator) was taken so early that she has no memories of before. No childhood. No name. No self that existed prior to the cage. She is the most compelling narrator I have encountered in years, because she experiences everything without the frame the rest of us use to make sense of experience. Is it science fiction? Post-apocalyptic? Psychological? The book doesn’t particularly care, and eventually neither do you. What stays with you is the question of what we are when you strip away everything we think we’re made of. And now I’m desperate to talk about theories. If you have read it, let’s chat. —Krys Ziska Strange, director, learning design & technology innovation, Educational Technology Services, Tufts Technology Services
Light Years, by James Salter. On the face of it, this gorgeous, incandescently lyrical novel from 1975 tells the story of a marriage and its dissolution. Viri and Nedra are a privileged couple raising a family in New York’s Hudson Valley with a life full of dinner parties, natural beauty, and stimulating forays into Manhattan. As we might expect, the burnished surface of their days covers a more complicated set of experiences, and we get fleeting glimpses of the dissatisfactions, frustrations, and betrayals that beset their domestic idyll. But this is more than a novel about the unfulfilled promises of matrimony or the emptiness of bourgeois fantasy. With Salter’s exquisite sentences and the kaleidoscope of scenes that they build, it probes the emotional intensity of life in both its euphoric and despondent moments. As evocative and atmospheric descriptions of light knit the fragmented narrative together, they work to capture the way our days turn into years and ask what other changes take place along the way. —John Lurz, associate professor, Department of English
The Original, by Priya Parmar. Historical fiction doesn’t get much better than this, deeply researched and vividly imagined, especially in the lacunae in the official histories—what might have happened—all told with grace and aplomb. The “original” of the title is actress Katharine Hepburn. We first meet Kate as a child, and see her experience the tragic loss of her older brother Tom, and how it sets her apart from others. She has a singular look and voice—and a brash self-confidence she inherited from her parents (her mother is a suffragist and birth control advocate). A screen test in the early 1930s lands her in Hollywood and a starring role in A Bill of Divorcement, directed by George Cukor, who will be close to her for decades. As a 22-year-old, she’s secretly married to a loving schlump of a man and, in this telling, at the same time sleeping with an heiress—never one to be pinned down. The cast is impressive and vividly drawn—David Selznick, Irene Mayer Selznick, Cary Grant and housemate Randolph Scott, Howard Hughes, and even the city of Los Angeles. In brief sections, the story is told from all their points of view, a clever strategy that broadens the depth of the narration. Parmar has a confident and very sympathetic voice—she clearly cares about these real people, and makes us care, too. —Taylor McNeil, senior news and audience engagement editor, University Communications and Marketing
Scatterlings, by Rešoketšwe Martha Manenzhe. This work of historical fiction by South African author Manenzhe is set in 1927 South Africa. Scatterlings introduces us to a multiracial family with multinational origins, at a time following the passage of the Immorality Act, which criminalized sexual and romantic relationships between the races. With two multiracial children, the family’s white father and Black mother gradually understand that their high economic status can protect them, and particularly their two daughters, for only so long. Though the topic is heavy, the book—with its mix of family drama and social, political, and mythological dimensions—is not a difficult read and I don’t hesitate to recommend it as summer reading. The system of apartheid in South Africa is well known, but Scatterlings prompted me to think more broadly about what it is like to be caught on the wrong side of a government’s actions. The 1927 law criminalized the very existence of the Van Zil family and, through the story of these interesting characters, we consider the implications of other laws that withdraw rights from a country’s citizens and residents.—Jessica Daniels, director of the PhD Program, The Fletcher School
Theo of Golden, by Allen Levi. I absolutely loved Theo of Golden. The novel is a heartfelt and emotional story centered on grief, family, art, and healing. Theo is mourning the loss of his daughter while also trying to reconnect with his son, Asher, whose paintings become a powerful thread throughout the story. Rather than keeping Asher’s work hidden away, Theo chooses to share the paintings with the people who inspired or appeared in them, creating unexpected moments of connection and understanding along the way. Theo’s journey to find Asher felt both emotional and hopeful, and the way the paintings and Theo connected strangers to one another made the novel feel deeply human. Each interaction revealed something meaningful about love, loss, forgiveness, and the importance of being seen. The writing is beautiful and thoughtful without feeling overly sentimental, and the characters are layered and believable. I especially appreciated how art was used as a way to process grief and rebuild relationships. It’s even more impressive knowing this was Allen Levi’s debut novel, as the storytelling feels polished, authentic, and deeply moving. Theo of Golden is ultimately a story about redemption, healing, and finding connection even in the hardest moments. I would highly recommend it to anyone who enjoys emotional, character-driven novels with heart and originality. —Christine C. Fitzgerald, manager, service marketing & communications, Tufts Technology Services
A True Account: Hannah Masury’s Sojourn Among the Pyrates, Written by Herself, by Katherine Howe. My gosh, this book was fun! I didn’t think I was in the mood for a rollicking pirate adventure, but apparently I was. A True Account is also an engaging piece of historical fiction, and the story of two women from different eras who break the boundaries—are, at least, working to break the boundaries—that society has set for them. Hannah Masury is an 18th-century tavern girl who finds herself unexpectedly ensconced among a pirate crew—and a fairly ragtag crew at that, even as pirates go. Two hundred years in the future, Radcliffe professor Marian Beresford and a student are trying to verify the authenticity of Hannah’s account of her adventures—and determine, assuming the account is correct, if they can retrieve her crew’s hidden treasure. Hannah and Marian are both brave women in their own ways, although Hannah’s story starts off with considerably more excitement and keeps the pages turning at a swifter pace. —Helene Ragovin, University Communications and Marketing
The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion, (Volumes 1–8) by Beth Brower. I read all eight volumes in five days. If that isn’t a good pitch, I don’t know what to tell you. Set in 1883 London, the series follows Emma M. Lion through the adventures available to a woman of her era—which are more than you’d expect if your life is populated by an eccentric cousin, a formidable aunt, and the strange residents of the St. Crispian’s neighborhood. Each volume is a novella-length journal excerpt, so the format is manageable, but good luck stopping at one. If you loved Jane Austen primarily for the snark, Emma is your person. What Brower does particularly well is the class mixing. Emma lives on the fringes of high society, and the series never lets you forget that the stakes for her are real, without becoming depressing or cliche about it. Add in a golden-quartet friendship that is delicately balanced, a thread of magical surrealism woven through the neighborhood, literary references everywhere, and writing that is somehow both emotionally resonant and very funny. Fair warning: this is an unfinished series. Volume 8 ends mid-story, and Volume 9 has not yet appeared. —Krys Ziska Strange, director, learning design & technology innovation, Educational Technology Services, Tufts Technology Services
Whistler, by Ann Patchett. Asking “what’s your favorite Ann Patchett novel?” is a bit like asking “what’s your favorite topping for an ice cream sundae?” Is there one that isn’t good? But Whistler, Patchett’s latest release, has the hot fudge, the caramel, and the whipped cream all together. I read it in a day, even though I wanted to relish each page just a little bit longer. But ice cream sundaes melt, especially in the summer—so I kept reading. Daphne Fuller is a middle-aged English teacher at a private girls’ school in New York. She has a wonderful and supportive husband, Jonathan, who is a retired hospital administrator trying to figure out how to fill his time and his considerable need to keep fixing other people’s problems. She has a sister, Leda, a Manhattan-based therapist with whom Daphne is exceedingly close. And a good thing the sisters are so close, because they spend a lot of time in this novel talking about and trying to unpack their difficult childhood, with a thrice-married mother who wasn’t big on showing her daughters much affection, a biological father who was pretty AWOL, and two stepfathers with vastly different personalities and levels of engagement with them. And, as we learn, there were also several traumatic events that touched Daphne and Leda’s collective childhood and adolescence in deep ways. All of this starts to come out when Daphne and Jonathan surprisingly encounter Eddie Triplett, Daphne’s “second father” (and most favorite of the three) one afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Reconnecting with Eddie after decades brings Daphne back to the event that both bonded her to him, but also forced him out of her life—a terrible car accident that Patchett returns to periodically, revealing parts of Daphne’s past and present, and possibly changing her future. The novel travels back and forth between Daphne’s first-person present, and a third-person look at her childhood years. As with other Patchett novels, the characters are drawn with subtlety and compassion; the plot unfolds in ways that we can’t always predict. The different kinds of family bonds we find in the book—the ones we’re born into and the ones we make—can be complicated by secrets and by richly layered past histories. But the overarching theme of Whistler is that there’s something extremely precious about the love of those we ultimately define as “our people,” whomever they might be. —Julie Dobrow, teaching professor, Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Study and Human Development; director, Interdisciplinary Studies Program
Yesteryear, by Caro Claire Burke. If you’re in the mood for a real head scratcher, Yesteryear is it. It’s a book that both angered and enthralled me as I read it, which makes it perfect book to lament about with others. The book is about a “tradwife” social media influencer, Natalie Heller Mills, who pretends to live an authentic, old-fashioned farm life online. But one day she wakes up in 1855 and is forced to live the reality she’d been promoting to her followers. It’s a trippy, disorienting book that flashes back and forth between Natalie’s confusing and terrifying experience living in the past, to the journey of her life and conservative upbringing that led her to the moment of suspected time travel. If you haven’t been able to tear your eyes away from the immaculate cooking videos with soft-whispered voiceovers by model-influencer Nara Smith, or wonder how real the picturesque life of dancer-turned-homesteader Hannah Neeleman, aka Ballerina Farm, is, this is the book for you. It’s got a little bit of everything—an unsettling and mysterious alternate reality, a troubled marriage to a politician’s son, the pressures of modern motherhood, and a satirical take on the curated lives of conservative influencers. Plus, it’s got an ending twist that will either shock, satisfy, or annoy you. I enjoyed reading this book because I left the last page feeling all three of those emotions. —Haley Lerner, content creator/editor, University Communications and Marketing
NONFICTION
Escape from Rome: The Failure of Empire and the Road to Prosperity, by Walter Scheidel. Stanford Professor Walter Scheidel’s Escape from Rome is a big, bold, and fascinating book about one of history’s most important questions: why did rapid and sustained economic growth begin in Europe? His answer is counterintuitive. Europe prospered not because it recreated the Roman Empire, but because Rome collapsed and no later power managed to rebuild a durable empire on the same scale. The result was centuries of political fragmentation: kingdoms, city-states, churches, merchants, universities, and military entrepreneurs all competing with one another. Scheidel argues that this messy, violent, decentralized environment created the conditions for innovation. Rulers had to bargain, borrow, tax, fight, and adapt. People, capital, and ideas could often move from one jurisdiction to another. No single empire could permanently suppress rivals or freeze the system in place. Over time, this competitive disorder helped produce the institutional and technological breakthroughs that made Europe the birthplace of modern capitalism and industrialization. It is an awesome book: sweeping, deeply researched, packed with incredible charts, and fun to argue with. Even when you are not fully convinced, Scheidel forces you to think harder about empire, competition, and the strange historical origins of the modern world. —Michael Beckley, associate professor, Department of History
Family of Spies, by Christine Kuehn. File this one under “truth is stranger than fiction.” What if you discovered, well into adulthood, that your grandparents had been Nazi spies stationed in Hawaii in the 1930s, essentially subcontracted to the Japanese to help plan and carry out the attack on Pearl Harbor? That’s what happened to journalist Christine Kuehn. (And that’s not a spoiler—the premise is made clear from the beginning of the book; heck, it’s even on the cover.) Kuehn’s father had always spoken little of his childhood in Hawaii and especially of his parents, the grandparents Christine never met. A letter arrives out of the blue, raising questions that sent Kuehn on a years-long search for the truth about her family’s wartime activities. What she finds is astonishing—a literal family of spies operating practically in plain sight, whose actions contributed to one of the most significant events in 20th century history. Alongside that, Kuehn recounts her relationship with her father, who was youngster living a more or less typical American life during the years his parents and sister were involved in espionage, and the trauma he struggled with afterward as he kept the family’s infamy hidden for years afterward. —Helene Ragovin, University Communications and Marketing
The First Signs: Unlocking the Mysteries of the World’s Oldest Symbols, by Genevieve von Petzinger. Working for years in a continual cycle of contemporary art exhibits hosted by the Tufts University Art Galleries, I sometimes feel the need to rest that part of my brain. It should then come as no surprise to hear that I’m currently reading about art makers at the other end of the continuum—the Neanderthals. After hearing an interview with the author on a podcast, I downloaded The First Signs by Genevieve von Petzinger, whose work focuses specifically on the study of common motifs dating between 40,000 and 130,000 years ago. While you may be thinking of the newfangled bison drawings in the caves at Lascaux, von Petzinger would regard those works (created approximately 20,000 years ago) as later graffiti by early humans that obscures the real story. Using new technology to examine pigments and mark-making through layers of minerals and accretions, she has identified and documented a group of 32 non-representational symbols found in hundreds of caves, which are now considered the oldest art. Spoiler alert—it turns out that Neanderthals invented the crosshatch pattern that is now recognized as the hashtag; they were way ahead of their time. —Laura McDonald, art collections manager and registrar, Tufts University Art Galleries
The Four Heavens: A New History of the Ancient Maya, by David Stuart. When we think of the Maya, what mostly comes to mind are their striking ruins that have survived to this day—Chichen Itza, Tikal, Palenque. But thanks to decipherment of the hieroglyphs they left, their story can now be told, and Stuart, one of the leaders of the decipherment, does it well in this groundbreaking book. The people we call the Maya—they didn’t call themselves that—arose circa 1000 BCE, developing writing early on and settling in the forests of what is now Guatemala, northern Honduras, Belize, and the Mexican states of Yucatan, Quintana Roo, and Chiapas. Early on, they developed complicated calendars—the 260-day count, the 365-day calendar, and what we call the Long Count, a place notation system that allows us to date their events to within a day on our own calendars. The core of the book are chapters on the East, West, North, and South regions of the Maya polity, as seen especially in the Classic period, circa 500-750 CE. These are stories of dynasties rising and falling, moving and rising again, in conflict or alliance with neighbors, close and far. Two of the main players, the Kanul and Mutal, were bitter rivals and occasional partners over the centuries. By the 700s, the Maya heartlands saw a large population boom, but droughts followed and as societies became more militarized, war became constant. Within a century or two, many of those areas were abandoned. It wasn’t a collapse of the Maya, as is commonly portrayed, but part of a much longer pattern of periodic abandonments of city centers, Stuart says, dating back thousands of years. One thing that struck me is how utterly like us the ancient Maya were in certain ways—creative, greedy, cruel, entrepreneurial, and yet so very different, too. Stuart writes well about complex topics and histories that were previously known only partially at best, helping us understand the ancient Maya better than ever. He puts them on the world stage as much as any kings or caliphs or emperors of their times, and wants them to be recognized as a world civilization. He also reminds us that the Maya certainly didn’t disappear; even after the invasion of the Spanish 500 years ago, there are some 5 million Maya people living and speaking their languages today. —Taylor McNeil, senior news and audience engagement editor, University Communications and Marketing
The Great Partnership: Science, Religion, and the Search for Meaning, by Rabbi Jonathan Sacks. The most recent book I read is Jonathan Sacks’ 2012 volume that aims to reconcile tensions between science and religion. Sacks, who died in 2020 after a distinguished career as Chief Rabbi in the United Kingdom, wrote his book largely in response to the “new atheist” writers who were influential in the post-9/11 years, among them Tufts philosopher Daniel Dennett. Dennett, who passed away two years ago, was one of my favorite professors when I was undergraduate philosophy major here at Tufts. I had the great privilege of taking a class with Dennett in the early 2000s when he was writing his anti-religion book, Breaking the Spell, and our class delighted in reading and critiquing draft chapters as he wrote them. As much as I loved learning from Dennett, including from his work on religion, neither he nor the other “new atheist” writers captured the essence of religious identity, culture, or faith. Rabbi Sacks offer a beautiful response, showing how science and religion are not in conflict, but together deepen our relationship with the world around us. —Eitan Hersh, A05, professor, Department of Political Science; director, Center for Expanding Viewpoints in Higher Education
Greyhound: A Memoir, by Joanna Pocock. In 2006, a year after her sister died and following her third miscarriage, Pocock set off on Greyhound buses from Napanee, Ontario, where she grew up, to Los Angeles. In 2023, she wanted to travel that same route by bus again, and this book recounts those voyages, intertwined and casting shadows on each other. In 2006, in her late 30s, she attracted attention; in 2023 she was an older woman, often almost invisible. There’s a documentary feel to Greyhound, as Pocock, who lives in London, writes fluidly about the state of the poor people she meets traveling across America—it is they who must travel by bus in a country dominated by cars. She includes many black and white photos, often stark and unpeopled, highlighting the empty small towns along the way. The Greyhound company, now owned by a German firm, barely maintains the buses, has sold many of its bus stations, leaving passengers to embark on street corners, and like everything else is “appified,” a way to disassociate people from the service. Another difference over the years: passengers used to talk with each other, and Pocock vividly recounts many of their striking stories from her first trip. Now riders just stare at their phones, locked in isolation. This is a dark picture of the have-nots in the U.S., which Pocock reinforces with reportage about poverty in our rich country. But somehow the book is utterly engaging, too. I’d easily read 50 pages at a go, and come right back to it the next evening, testament to her skillful storytelling. —Taylor McNeil, senior news and audience engagement editor, University Communications and Marketing
How the War Was Won: Air-Sea Power and Allied Victory in World War II, by Phillips Payson O’Brien. Phillips Payson O’Brien has established himself among the commentariat with incisive takes on strategic issues of the present. That’s proof you should listen to historians. O’Brien was already an authority on the Second World War. His How the War Was Won is part of a perpetual and lively argument over what, exactly, produced victory. O’Brien makes a compelling case that it was the dominance of air power and sea power that ultimately decided the conflict, not the great collisions of armies. It was not just the battles at sea and in the air that were decisive, but how control of the skies and seas affected logistics and production, themselves decisive fronts in the war. Defeating the enemy in combat was vital, but more important was depriving them of mobility, the ability to move and effectively employ their forces, raw materials, and supplies. Such well-honed historical views are why O’Brien’s takes on conflicts in the present can be razor sharp. —David Ekbladh, professor, Department of History
How To Win a Trade War, by Soumaya Keynes and Chad Bown. International trade is having its moment, with President Trump’s so-called Liberation Day tariffs on April 2, 2025 (and the subsequent fall in the S&P 500 index by 12%), followed by an easing of these restrictions, followed by a new round of tariffs, followed by retaliation by the Chinese (stopping imports of American soybeans and threatening limits on exports of vital rare earth elements), and on and on. How to best understand these high-level machinations that affect ordinary people’s lives and livelihoods? And is a book on this topic an appropriate summer read? It is if it’s fun—and the new book by Soumaya Keynes, a correspondent for the London-based Financial Times, and Chad Bown, a senior fellow at the Peterson Institute for International Economics, is a fun read. Soumaya and Chad discuss each other’s foibles and predilections (she’s a cynic, he’s an optimist) and use a plethora of striking metaphors to explain recent trade policies—stinky fish for the threat of undertaking extreme policies; pirate ships, war ships, merchant ships, and amphibious vehicles for the United States, China, the EU, and India, respectively; a drug high and subsequent crash for barriers on imports; your teenager’s interactions with the miscreant Dangerous Doug or the exemplary Matey Mike for export restrictions. These fanciful narrative devices make for both a very entertaining read and incisive, accessible insights on important and subtle real-world issues in international trade. —Michael W. Klein, William L. Clayton Professor of International Economic Affairs, The Fletcher School
Monsters in the Archives: My Year of Fear with Stephen King, by Caroline Bicks. I started reading Stephen King several years before his horror novels were age appropriate. I plowed through thousands of pages of killer clowns, telekinetic teens, post-pandemic wastelands, and tormented writers. At some point, I paused long enough to write King a letter, hoping he would grant an interview to an adoring fan (he would not). Eventually, I moved onto writers and books considered to be more serious, more worthy of time and attention. But you know what? None of them were as fun to read. When I heard about Caroline Bicks’ new book, Monsters in the Archives, I couldn’t click “buy” fast enough. Bicks is a Shakespeare scholar and has the one job that does help you get an interview with the master: she’s the Stephen E. King Chair in Literature at the University of Maine. Monsters in the Archives details a year of going through his archives and studying the drafts of his earliest and most beloved books. It’s equal parts memoir, literary criticism, and writing guide. Bicks also began reading King at a young age and deftly connects his writing—and his monsters—to moments from her childhood. She draws on her academic training to situate his storytelling among the classics, comparing the themes and characters in Carrie to those of Macbeth. And she provides a glimpse into the ways that King and his editor revised and refined his work to produce books like The Shining that have delighted and haunted readers for decades. I didn’t need an excuse to return to King’s classics, but when I do, it will be with a newfound appreciation for his craft. —Marc Chalufour, senior content creator/editor, University Communications and Marketing
Next Years Best Years: Taking Your Retirement to the Next Level, by Harry Agress Jr. While I’m still far from retirement, this book had me daydreaming. A retired radiologist and recent speaker for the inaugural Tufts Masterclass on aging and wellness, Agress, A68, M72, has an enthusiasm that is contagious, which certainly comes through in this book. Retirement is often framed as an ending or a withdrawal from professional life. Agress proposes that we approach retirement as a long and meaningful chapter that deserves intention, experimentation, and planning—not just financially, but emotionally and socially as well. What makes this book especially compelling is that it treats retirement less as a finish line and more as a transition into renewed purpose. Written in an accessible and engaging style, the book blends personal stories, practical guidance, reflective exercises, and an impressive collection of ideas and resources. Readers are encouraged to reassess priorities, challenge assumptions about aging, try new experiences, invest in relationships, and think seriously about one’s legacy. What stood out most is the book’s optimism. Agress acknowledges that retirement can be disorienting, while offering concrete pathways for making it fulfilling, stimulating, and joyful. The anecdotes are memorable, and the suggestions are actionable. Whether retirement is decades away or just around the corner—or whether you are supporting someone through the transition—this is a book worth returning to more than once. It leaves readers with an appealing question: what if your next years really could be your best years? —Denise Bates, dean, University College; professor, Department of History
Secret Cities Secret Work, by Charles Levenstein and Beth Rosenberg. This is a small book with a massive impact. Built on two decades of attentive listening and research, this collection of poems and testimonials gives voice to workers whose lives have been shaped by the U.S. nuclear weapons enterprise. It takes readers to six “secret cities” across the United States—communities built around nuclear production, testing, waste management, and cleanup. Through the voices of workers, we learn about exposure to toxic substances, fears of retaliation for raising safety concerns, and the emotional burden of feeling both essential and invisible. What makes this book particularly timely is the renewed interest in nuclear energy. As societies seek low-carbon energy sources to support growing demands from AI and data centers, questions about worker safety, environmental stewardship, and long-term accountability deserve renewed attention. The authors, both long-standing advocates for occupational health and worker protection, challenge readers to consider whether regulations and oversight have kept pace with known risks. The emotional force of the poems—precisely because they are fact-based and restrained—makes them even more powerful for conveying complex occupational health realities. Secret Cities Secret Work is an important read for anyone deeply caring about the human dimensions of technological progress. —Elena N. Naumova, Barry J. Rosenbaum Professor of Data Science, Nutrition Epidemiology and Data Science Division, Friedman School of Nutrition Science and Policy
Those Who Are About to Die: A Day in the Life of a Roman Gladiator, by Harry Sidebottom. Sidebottom, who has written two historical fiction series, stand-alone novels, and nonfiction, brings you into the life of a Roman gladiator by outlining a typical day (and night) in their life. With a knack for blending scholarship, literary sources, and archaeology into an accessible narrative, Sidebottom gives you a view into everything from diet and training, to combat and ceremony, to the aftermath. You will learn about the paradoxical ways gladiators were viewed by Roman society and how gladiatorial fights were deeply interconnected with Roman culture. And you will learn interesting factoids: unlike the fit Hollywood stars that portray them in film, real gladiators purposely gained a layer of fat over their muscles. This protected them when they purposely got superficial wounds that would bleed theatrically. And they had notoriously bad teeth! —Amanda K. Rowley, senior director of marketing & communications, School of Arts and Sciences, Graduate School of Arts and Sciences, School of the Museum of Fine Arts at Tufts
Twice Born, by Hester Kaplan. It’s a little hard to know how to classify Hester Kaplan’s Twice Born. It’s a biography of her father, Justin Kaplan, Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award-winning biographer of Samuel Clemens, Walt Whitman, and Lincoln Steffens. It’s also a memoir, and an analysis of Hester’s complicated relationship with her father; a pondering of how much a biographer picks a subject because of real or perceived similarities with them; and a meditation on how writers become writers. It’s also a period piece, talking about the time (1960s and 70s) and place (Cambridge) and the zeitgeist of that time and place (John Kenneth Galbraith and Julia Child were neighbors; John Updike, Kurt Vonnegut, and other well-known writers were frequent guests at the house; Vietnam War protestors marched right down their street). Twice Born is also a great read. The book is deeply moving, funny in places, and poignant in others. Kaplan’s unbraided honesty is compelling as she tries to piece together the life of her famous father, who was extremely physically present as she and her sisters were growing up and yet also emotionally remote. He also unyieldingly withheld information about his own life story, even as he worked to tell the stories of other people’s lives. The imagined dialogues with her deceased father are touching, because like all of us who talk to parents no longer alive, she is able to say all the things she couldn’t when young. Twice Born is also affecting because it considers how some of our memories of childhood, of our parents, of ourselves, can blur between what we actually recall and what we wish had happened way back when. —Julie Dobrow, teaching professor, Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Study and Human Development; director, Interdisciplinary Studies Program
Waking Up Alone: Navigating the Narrow Passage Through Master-Slave Narratives, by Nicole Wordlaw. In this memoir, Wordlaw offers a raw and candid look at how the national myths of equality and freedom espoused by the Declaration of Independence overshadow more sinister and consequential narratives that have shaped the lives and daily experiences of all Americans, and especially Black Americans, since our nation’s inception. Through elegant and eloquent poetic prose, Wordlaw lays bare how these narratives tell us that our value is conditional within systems of power that perpetuate complex psychological and sexual trauma. These narratives led this young girl born to a white mother and Black father in 1970 to believe that “If I become the right person, I will have the right life. My right choices will create the right experience, and I will earn the right love. The right love will eradicate the brothel, will disprove the master-slave narratives, and grant me acceptance, belonging, and comfort,” as she writes. However, the right degrees in psychology from Stanford and Berkeley, the right husband, the right meditation practice, and the right spiritual teachers could never free her from her cage. To find her path to self-acceptance, she had to rest within, turning away from her desire to be right, and notice “the still quiet voice of unconditional Love.” This is not a story of great arrivals, but rather the testimony of an ongoing personal and collective practice that this country needs now more than ever in this time of social division and political polarization. —Daniel Colón, A00
