A poem by Anthony Walton, and discussions of complicated family dynamics in a novella by Ágota Kristóf, a novel by Anne Tyler, and a short story by Ayşegül Savaş

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Line was waiting for me at the factory entrance, leaning against the wall. She looked so pale and sad that I decided to stop and talk to her.
—From Yesterday, a novella by Ágota Kristóf, translated from the French by David Watson (Dover Publications, Inc., 2019). The book was originally published in Paris, France, as Hier (Éditions du Seuil, 1996). The English-language translation was originally published in London, England (Secker & Warburg, 1997). 

Please note: although it's not as graphic as The Notebook Trilogy, this book does contain some subject matter that may not be suitable for everyone.     

I was in Istanbul for a few days and on my way to visit my grandfather. He'd moved in with my father at the beginning of the pandemic because we had been worried about him living alone, in the town by the Black Sea where he'd retired.
—From "Freedom to Move," a short story by Ayşegül Savaş, The New Yorker (July 22, 2024), pp. 50-54.

We are driving the Middle West, lost
as Oklahoma or Kansas slowly spins 
—From "Dead Reckoning," a poem by Anthony Walton, The New Yorker (July 22, 2024), pp. 52-53. 

Bonus book to read again: 

While Cody's father nailed the target to the tree trunk, Cody tested the bow. He drew the string back, laid his cheek against it, and narrowed his eyes at the target. His father was pounding in tacks with his shoe; he hadn't thought to bring a hammer. He looked like a fool, Cody thought. He owned no weekend clothes, as other fathers did, but had driven to this field in his strained-looking brown striped salesman suit, white starched shirt, and navy tie with multicolored square and circles scattered randomly across it. 
—From Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant, a novel by Anne Tyler (Alfred A. Knopf, 1982). 

A poem by ethan s. evans, stories by Kelly Link, novels by Solvej Balle and Lily King, and books by Laura Ingalls Wilder

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when they started to build a data center on the infill lot at the end of our road . . . 
—From "you told me you wanted a baby," a prose poem by ethan s. evans, Sixth Finch (Winter 2026). 

At a table nearby three women were talking about a new pocket universe. A new diet. A coworker's new baby; a girl born with no shadow. . . . A long, lubricated conversation followed about over-the-counter shadows—prosthetics, available in most drugstores, not expensive and reasonably durable. 
—From Get in Trouble, a collection of nine stories by Kelly Link (Random House, 2015). This segment is from my favorite story, "Light," which closed the collection (pp. 287-333 in the hardcover). "Light" originally appeared in Tin House (Fall 2007).  

Nothing has changed and there is nothing I have to do. There are no books to be bought, no auctions to attend, no friends to visit. I have no pattern of sounds and silence around which to organize my day, I have no plans, I have no calendar. Time passes, but all it does is pour day after day into my world, it goes nowhere, it has no stops or stations, only this endless chain of days. 
—From On the Calculation of Volume II, a novel by Solvej Balle, translated from the Danish by Barbara J. Haveland (New Directions, 2024). This is the second book in a series of seven and has been published by arrangement with Copenhagen Literary Agency. Originally published as Om udregning af rumfang II (Pelagraf, 2020). The excerpt above is from page 7 of the English-language paperback. 

Plaire is not a wealthy town. It is not one of those immaculate, romantic villages described in books about the south of France. 
—From The Pleasing Hour, a novel by Lily King (Grove Press, 1999). 

Bonus books to read again: 

All winter long, they had been crowded in the little kitchen, cold and hungry and working hard in the dark and the cold to twist enough hay to keep the fire going and to grind wheat in the coffee mill for the day's bread. 
—From Little Town on the Prairie, from the series by Laura Ingalls Wilder (1941). My copy is from Harper Trophy (first printing, 1971) with illustrations by Garth Williams. I've also recently reread Little House in the Big Woods, Little House on the Prairie, On the Banks of Plum Creek, By the Shores of Silver Lake, and The Long Winter (referenced above, in this excerpt which appears toward the beginning of Little Town on the Prairie, on page 3). 

I've read some things about the controversies surrounding these books. I agree that the stories include some shockingly racist language and thoughts (not from Laura herself but from others around her). Even within the books, though, there are multiple disagreements on this topic. In several scenes, Ma, who is a young woman often left alone in the middle of nowhere with tiny children, is clearly terrified of the Native Americans because of stories she's heard, not because of her own real-life interactions, which are largely benign. Pa, on the other hand, seems to have a positive and cordial relationship with the local Native Americans, and he reiterates this multiple times to Ma. 

It doesn't make sense to me to ban or remove or vilify these books or their author, who was of course in every way a product of her time. The stories provide a valuable opportunity to discuss historical differences of all kinds. For example, can we compare women and children's roles in society and in the home between then and now? Thoughts about many things have changed enormously since then. Talking about these differences seems better than pretending that they never existed.

One of the through lines is the significance of a loving family and supportive community. There are many times in these stories when having the help of friends and neighbors means the difference between life and death. The books also emphasize the importance of education and hard work. These values feel as important as ever.