Novels by Bruna Dantas Lobato and Katie Kitamura, a story collection by Jana Egle, and poetry by Daniel Halpern and Małgorzata Lebda

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Besides plain white bedsheets and a pillow, the only thing I bought for the room was a desk lamp: dark blue, with an adjustable neck, a bit of color standing out against all the shades of beige. When my mom called me on Skype from our apartment on the outskirts of Natal, that's what she saw.
—From Blue Light Hours, a novel by Bruna Dantas Lobato (Black Cat/Grove Atlantic, 2024). 

I saw a flicker of surprise cross [the host's] features as a I pointed [at the young man seated at the back of the restaurant]. He looked quickly from my face to my coat to my jewelry. It was my age, above all. That was the thing that confounded him. He gave a tight smile and asked me to please follow him.
—From Audition, a novel by Katie Kitamura (Riverhead Books, 2025). I listened to this as an audiobook narrated by Traci Kato-Kiriyama, and I would also recommend it in that format. 

Should we take a trip?  
—"Invitation," a poem by Daniel Halpern, The New Yorker (March 11, 2024, pp. 44-45).   

Dita is standing at the window in her home, an opened letter in her hands, waiting for Niks to drive up with their two smallest children. That morning they'd gone to Niks's mother's places to get some potatoes—they didn't have any of their own left.
—From Birthday, a short story collection by Jana Egle, translated from the Latvian by Uldis Balodis (Open Letter, 2025). The book was originally published as Dzimšanas diena (Latvijas Mediji, 2020). This segment is from the story "The Debt," which appears on pages 25-44 of the trade paperback. Please note: this book contains at least two stories that may not be suitable for everyone. 

Night here in the valley spreads out its vigil,
night of one place following after another.
—From "Faithful Animal," a poem by Małgorzata Lebda, translated from the Polish by Mira Rosenthal. Six of Małgorzata Lebda's poems from her book Mer de Glace were translated into English and included, along with a personal essay, in the eleventh installment of the "Literature and Democracy" series from New England Review.

Novels by Susan Choi and Giovana Madalosso, short stories by Mariana Enriquez and Etgar Keret, and a cross-genre book by Marie NDiaye

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Louisa and her father are making their way down the breakwater, each careful step on the heaved granite blocks one step farther from shore. Her mother is not even on the shore, for example seated smiling on the sand. Her mother is shut inside the small almost-waterfront house they are renting, most likely in bed. 
—From Flashlight, a novel by Susan Choi (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2025). 

I'm kidnapping a child. I try to push this thought away, but it keeps coming back as we go down the elevator, say hi to Chico, pass the gates. We do these things every day, go downstairs, say hi to Chico, pass the gates, step on only the black tiles or the white on the sidewalk. But today it's different even if we're not doing anything different, because I know the white army stares at me. Mrs. Fernanda made up this moni­ker, the white army. And she's not wrong, we really look like an army, especially this early in the morning, when they're all in the piazza in their white nanny uniforms . . . 
—From The Tokyo Suite, a novel by Giovana Madalosso, translated from the Portuguese by Bruna Dantas Lobato (Europa Editions, 2025). Originally published in Portuguese as Suíte Tóquio (Todavia, 2020). 

[Silvia] was our "grown-up" friend, the one who took care of us when we went out and who let us use her place to smoke weed and meet up with boys. But we wanted her helpless, ruined, destroyed. Because Silvia always knew more: If one of us discovered Frida Kahlo, oh, Silvia had already visited Frida's house with her cousin in Mexico, before he disappeared. 
—From "Our Lady of the Quarry," a story from The Dangers of Smoking in Bed, a collection of short stories by Mariana Enriquez, translated from the Spanish by Megan McDowell (Hogarth, 2021), pp. 13-25 in the paperback. I first read "Our Lady of the Quarry" when it was published in English in The New Yorker in December 2020. This book was originally published in Spanish as Los peligros de fumar en la cama by Editorial Anagrama in Barcelona, Spain (2017). 

His Tinder profile said his name was Oshik, he was thirty-eight, married with no kids, looking for a serious relationship. Dorit, who wasn't new to online dating, had never come across such an unusual line, and he sounded so square and had such high cheekbones and enormous blue eyes that she was curious enough to give it a try.
—From "Gondola," a short story by Etgar Keret, which was included in his new collection, Autocorrect, translated from the Hebrew by Jessica Cohen and Sondra Silverston (Riverhead Books, 2025). "Gondola" appears on pages 11-22 of the hardcover. My other favorites from this collection were the title story, "Autocorrect" (71-77), "Director's Cut" (107-108), and "Earthquake" (151-159). 

Evening has come, and the Garonne is rising hour after hour in the dark.
          We all know the river can rise nine meters above its banks before it overflows, thanks to the levees surrounding the village.
—From Self-Portrait in Green, a short, cross-genre book by Marie NDiaye, translated from the French by Jordan Stump (Two Lines Press, 2014, 2023). Originally published in French as Autoportrait en vert (Mercure de France, 2005).