In “Self Portrait with Cheese,” a story from Frederic Tuten’s new collection, the narrator tries to give bears a seminar in the “history of humankind.” But the bears, freshly escaped from the circus, soon grow bored of both his teachings and their newfound life of ease. They resolve to return to the circus, but to perform only in the manner of their choosing.

The jacket copy of Leslie Brody’s new biography Irrepressible will tell you that Jessica Mitford, or Decca, as she was nicknamed, was “yoked to every important event for nearly all of the twentieth century.” This is a bit much, but it’s true that Mitford witnessed some of the century’s major events. Even as a teenager in 1932, “using a diamond ring, Decca and [her sister] Unity etched symbols of their political affiliations into the window of the room they shared at the top of the house—Unity drew a swastika; Decca a hammer and sickle.” The Mitford family’s inner turmoil—with most members (

It is no accident that the prologue to David Grossman’s new novel, To the End of the Land, takes place in a fever ward. As the stories unfold, the reader discovers that fever is not just a symptom of physical illness. It becomes a description of the existential state of Israel.

The fat kid who plays the French horn. The mentally stunted drug dealer. The suck-up, runner-up for valedictorian. The boy who lights his fart into "a magnificent plume of flame...a cold and beautiful enchantment that for an instant bathes the locker room in unearthly light." These are a few typical characters from Paul Murray's Skippy Dies, a sprawling homage to adolescence, string theory, roofies, wet knickers, and unrequited love. Set in Ireland at the Seabrook Catholic School for Boys, the book features a cast of fourteen-year-olds who have populated classrooms for centuries.

And yet as

Dear Bob Dylan,

I hope this finds you well. You don’t know me. My name is Rhett Miller. I make albums as a solo artist and as the front man for a band called Old 97’s. I am like you, at least in that I’ve dedicated my postadolescent life to writing songs and singing them for folks. I write you now to pay my respects (much as you did to one of your heroes all those years ago in “Song to Woody”), to thank you for giving so much of yourself, and to ask you: What are we to do now? Here, at this late date, at the tip-top of the Tower of Babel, with all these voices shouting and so few listening,