Novels by Min Jin Lee and Elisa Shua Dusapin, graphic memoirs by David Small and Liana Finck, and poetry by Andrea Cohen

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In 1910, when Hoonie was twenty-seven years old, Japan annexed Korea. The fisherman and his wife [were] thrifty and hardy peasants . . . When the rent for their house was raised again, the couple moved out of their bedroom and slept in the anteroom near the kitchen to increase the number of lodgers.
—From Pachinko, a novel by Min Jin Lee (Grand Central Publishing, 2017). This is from page 3 of the trade paperback. I also listened to the audiobook, narrated by Allison Hiroto, which was excellent. 

The mere moving of her fork a half-inch to the right spelled dread at the dinner table. . . . Because she never spoke her mind, we never knew what this was all about. We two boys didn't, at any rate.  
—From Stitches, a graphic memoir by David Small (W. W. Norton & Company, 2009). These lines are from page 16 of the hardcover. 

It's a long book, more than 300 pages, and the artwork is a real standout. The illustrations are detailed and evocative. 

Also, you are hungry. You are so, so hungry. (And thirsty.) 
—From How to Baby: A No-Advice-Given Guide to Motherhood, a graphic memoir by Liana Finck (The Dial Press, 2024). 

Though these are both graphic memoirs, and they're both books that focus on parents and parenting, they're very different in both tone and content. Stitches is much darker and more serious. How to Baby is lighter and more humorous. 

Something went wrong.
That's what the machine
says when I call to say
my paper didn't arrive.  
—From The Sorrow Apartments, a collection of poetry by Andrea Cohen (Four Way Books, 2024). This is from "Something," pp. 28-30 in the paperback (first published, with an audio recording, in The Adroit Journal, Issue 39). My other favorites were "Adjacent," page 9 (Jewish Currents); "The Sorrow Apartments," 41-44 (The Arkansas International); and "Historical Register," p. 78. 

The rain was coming down so hard I missed the sign for the village. It had smudged the tire tracks, flattened out the ruts. In the end I couldn't see where I was going and had to pull over to the side of the road. All that water hammering down on the hood. 
—From The Old Fire, a novel by Elisa Shua Dusapin, translated from the French by Aneesa Abbas Higgins (Summit Books, 2026). Originally published in France as Le vieil incendie (Éditions Zoé, 2023).