If “God is Change,” as the fictitious religion of Earthseed intones, then Parable of the Talents is a divine sequel. Its evolution is more drastic even that of The Fall of Hyperion (now, only the second-most distinctive sequel I’ve ever read). From the very first page, it’s clear that at least the narrative context is more complex. The same woman’s journal entries tell both stories, but where Parable of the Sower is presented simply as her diary, Talents introduces a new character who curates the subsequent entries, inserts writing from others, and provides commentary of her own.

I really wanted to like Twelve Minutes. As a genre, the point-and-click adventure is near-and-dear to my heart, and the game’s “Groundhog Day”-inspired story adds some novelty (like a time limit and a protagonist with a persistent memory). The stakes were higher than my increasingly-routine “grown up gamer” diversions because my Mom was playing alongside me; I don’t mind slogging through the occasional dud on my own, but it’s harder to admit that you’ve invited someone to a lackluster party.

The Dispossessed tells the story of Shevek, a scientist from an anarchy who emigrates to a capitalistic society with hopes to complete his life’s work. Along the way, author Ursula LeGuin touches on many of the themes you might expect from such a story. There’s criticism of capitalism, centralization, and war; there’s also reflection on the value of mutual aid and social contracts. Although much of this is explicit, plenty comes from more nuanced exploration of the fictional cultures, e.

David McCullough knows how to tell a good story. I say this not just because I loved John Adams and not just because I loved Truman but also because I loved these lengthy books despite my ineptitude with studying history. You might argue that Adams makes it easy; his story is almost inherently good. I’ll skip the book report and instead substantiate that with a short list. Adams was: a lawyer who defended the British (“facts are stubborn things”) a husband who cherished an authentic partnership with his wife (“The times are critical and dangerous, and I must have you here to assist me,”) a diplomat who secured loans for the revolution (“a new scene for which I fear I am very ill qualified”) a parent who instilled values of education and public service (“the end of study is to make you a good man and a useful citizen”) a scholar who wrote the one of the world’s oldest constitutions (“a sub-sub committee of one”) a Vice President who supported his President ("[Washington] seeks information from all quarters and judges more independently than any man I ever saw") a President who campaigned for peace (“Always disposed and ready to embrace every plausible appearance of probability of preserving or restoring tranquility,”) a father who raised a President (“with a character so perfectly fair and a good humor so universally acknowledged, it is impossible for you to fail.

From the very first installment, the Silent Hill franchise established a distinctive brand of horror–grotesque yet fundamentally psychological. That intimidated me years before I would start playing myself. I still remember reading about the industry preview of the first game at E3, with audience members leaving the Konami booth in disgust. I jumped on at Silent Hill 2 and found a game which remains one of my favorites to this day.

What if the Second Coming was televised? In Punk Rock Jesus, writer/artist Sean Murphy imagines a mystical version of The Truman Show where the world watches the birth and upbringing of a boy supposedly cloned from genetic material in the Shroud of Turin. With a premise like that, it’ll probably surprise no one to hear that the six-part series is a bit of a mixed bag. The lead character is not the child of prophesy but rather Thomas McKael–an IRA agent turned bodyguard for the boy.

As an older successful indy title, Demo has been consistently present in my periphery for about as long as I’ve been browsing comics on my own. That made finally sitting down to read it a little like listening to Rain Dogs for the first time. As with Tom Waits’ 1985 album, I was not disappointed. Maybe because I’m neither a writer nor an artist, I’m always drawn in by the stories in comic books (rather than by the words or the pictures themselves).

I was fortunate enough to learn very little about Monster in the wake of the anime’s highly-acclaimed release between 2009 and 2010. I only knew it was a fictional drama and that it depicted a lot of suffering. If you’re similarly uninformed, I strongly recommend that you quit reading here and go give it a shot. Like a lot of contemporary fiction, Monster is best experienced with as few preconceptions as possible.

Our Malady explores how the American healthcare industry harms the country’s citizens and undermines its democracy. I didn’t initially recognize the connection there, so the book struck me as kind of out-of-place in author Timothy Snyder’s larger body of work. Although I knew he’d been inspired by a near-death experience while under hospitalization, the topic didn’t seem particularly related to tyranny and democracy. Snyder made the case in a 2021 essay:

I really thought I’d stumbled on something, here. All the way in the back of Comicopia, tucked in a stack of discount books, waited American Carnage. I didn’t recognize the creative team, but DC’s Vertigo imprint was a good sign, and the blurb had potential. Besides, it was Free Comic Book Day! What better time to take a risk in support of an offbeat institution? These experiments always entertain, but if they teach me anything at all, it’s most often about how not to make a comic book.