J’ai déjà lu la traduction anglaise de cet album magnifique—Delisle est assez connu aux États-Unis pour paraître (en traduction) dans les bibliothèques près de chez moi. Pourtant, il y a toujours quelque chose de decevant quand je sais que j’aurais lu le lire en français. Quand une ami a visité Bruxelles récemment, je lui ai donc demandé de m’acheter l’album en français. Ayant passé quelques étés dans des usines, l’expérience de Delisle m’a beaucoup marqué. J’ai aussi apprécié la couleur qu’il a ajouté à ses dessins (pas trop, mais plus que ses autres albums) et la façon dont il a raconté des souvenirs de jeunesse.

I put off watching this movie for a while, despite a number of recommendations. I think it’s fitting that I finally watched it so soon after listening to the audiobook of Walkaway, a very weird Cory Doctorow novel about finding hope despite things going very badly. This movie is far, far weirder than Walkaway, and yet it also does a much, much better job of getting that same message across. I feel like it spoke to many of my current anxieties, but in a healing and helpful way. It’s also the sort of movie I probably never would have watched as a devoutly practicing Mormon, but I’m glad that I’ve learned that films with references to butt plugs can also be deeply moving and even spiritually inspiring.

I bounced pretty hard off of Walkaway a year or so ago, but I recently decided to give it another try. I felt like I needed a boost of hopeful thinking, and I’d seen Doctorow post about the book as being hopeful. Did it ever deliver! Walkaway is hopeful on a nearly religious level, and it was exactly what I needed. The book is not naïvely optimistic but rather tenacious in its belief that we can still make this a better workd. The audiobook was excellent, too, which I think made it easier to get back into it—and to read it so relatively quickly.

Look, I’m not a cinema connoisseur, and I’m sure this doesn’t hold up in ways that I don’t know. Conversely, I appreciate Weird Al, but I’m not the kind of megafan that would pick up on every joke. All I know is that this movie is delightful for the way it just leans into the absurdity and doesn’t apologize for it. I loved it, and even the dumbest parts made it better.

What a weird, profound, and beautiful book. This is a very Mormon novel, and in all the best ways. It takes Mormonism seriously—even literally—but not uncritically. I’d wager that Peck has read Grant Hardy, and my favorite bit in an amazing book is a throwaway joke about farewell expressions in French in a way that only someone who knows and loves the Book of Mormon would do. More than all of that, it is a profound and optimistic (but never naïve) story about redemption knowing no bounds. I can’t recommend it enough.

I’ve read this short novella at least four times already, but I received a physical copy for Christmas and couldn’t help but give it another read. Despite being existentially horrifying, it’s one of my favorite books of all time. The protagonist is a Mormon man who dies and wakes up to his surprise in hell. This hell is specifically promised to be finite, but it’s a vast kind of finite: It’s a Borges-inspired library that consists of every possible book (as if written by monkeys on typewriters), and once you find the book that tells your life story, you get out of hell. It turns out, though, that this library is mind-bogglingly huge, so you could live billions of lifetimes before finding your book. The point of the book is to problematize eternity: If a “finite” hell is this awful, how much worse is an eternal hell? Heck, even an eternal heaven doesn’t necessarily sound great when you’re done with the book. For such a depressing premise, though, it’s so well done—and leaves so much to think about.

I unsuccessfully started this book a couple of years ago and recently decided that it was time to come back to it. I had a PDF copy and wanted something to read on my phone instead of mindlessly browsing the internet or refreshing my feed reader.

I’m glad that I read this now, a year after my confirmation in Community of Christ, rather than when my faith transition was in a more difficult phase. It let me read about Young’s darker side without feeling overly conflicted about it.

I picked this book up on a whim at a Nashville bookstore over the summer. It surprised me that I felt drawn to the book—I know who Wheaton is, but I’m not a super fan; the book was an expensive new hardback; and I usually am more hesitant about buying things than grabbing something on a whim.

I did really feel drawn to the book, though. I had recently started reading Wheaton’s blog, I admire his EFF-style thinking, I know he’s been an advocate for mental health, and I was intrigued by the conceit of revisiting a 20-year-old memoir and annotating it with two decades of further growth and hindsight.

I don’t know how much different Scherer’s writing—which bugged me in Vol. 2—changed for VOl. 3, but this period of recent history was fascinating to me and I couldn’t get enough of this book.

This volume captures Community of Christ becoming the denomination it is today, with all of the joys and struggles included therein. It was exciting to see the church struggle and adapt and grow—it made me happy to be part of this community. However, Scherer also doesn’t shy away from the struggles and real problems faced by the church during this time—many of which continue today. I feel responsibility and pressure to help the church survive and thrive, even though it scares me.

One of my favorite podcasts, The Incomparable, recently covered this book, describing it as a crazy mix of genres and ideas that shouldn’t work but absolutely does.

That convinced me to give the book a try, and that description holds up. There’s a woman who’s sold her soul to a demon; a family of extraterrestrial refugees running a donut shop; a trans girl escaping from abuse; love for video game music; a deep respect for food, classical music, and violin construction; and so much that doesn’t seem to all fit in the same story but does anyway.

I never would have picked this comic up on my own, but I discovered it through TVTropes, read it over two days, and really enjoyed i!

Fraction’s take on writing it is similar to Ryan North’s take on Squirrel Girl, with a lot of humor, very little taking oneself seriously, and plenty of story to keep the whole thing together.

The comic leans into the silliness of Olsen as a character and embraces a lot of the Silver Age approach to comics. It homages that era in a way that acknowledges its silliness, and that self-aware approach is —surprisingly!—better than any attempt to reimagine or grittify the character.

I grabbed this book at the library while dropping off some overdue items and read the whole thing that night before going to bed. Reread, rather—I’ve read this book at least once before. It made a big impression on me at the time, even though I’m sure I wasn’t particularly anti-racist then, and I loved it even more this time.

The art is great and the story is even better. It’s an amazing comic with a powerful message, and I think I ought to buy a copy for kiddo to read when she’s older. I already own Yang’s Superman Smashes the Klan, which is one of my favorite comics, but I think this one might be even better.

This took me a while to read: not because i didn’t like it, but because there were some parts that enraged me (in a productive way), so I couldn’t trust myself to read it before bed for fear of getting too wound up to sleep.

I appreciated the book’s straightforward approach to laying out problems with American democracy and its optimism that we can do something about it. This year, I’ve been wanting to think—and engage—more in politics, and I think I’ll find the last chapter of this book particularly helpful for giving me the motivation to do so.

Wolk read 27,000+ Marvel comics to write this book, an attempt to trace the most important part of the Marvel universe over the past ~60 years.

I love the book for a few reasons. First, it takes comics—and Marvel Comics in particular—seriously, examining their sense-making and stories. Second, there’s a deep love of comics that’s evident in the book. Not a stilted, defensive love, but a mature one that knows what’s wrong with them but champions what they get right.

I probably would not have read this book on my own but it was selected as the 2022 Kentucky Reads selection by Kentucky Humanities. I noticed that in a headline somewhere (probably the Herald-Leader) and decided it was worth giving it a shot.

I ended up enjoying the book a lot! It plays with themes of nostalgia and wondering if the past could have or should have been different. I’ve been thinking about both of those things a lot recently, including in the context of my faith transition. Mason’s Ann tries to imagine a past that would have been different but is unable to depart from the past that actually was, and for all my question about my own past, I know it’s the past I have, and I don’t mind it.