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I love uniquely American novels. Yates’ “Revolutionary Road,” Kesey’s “Sometimes a Great Notion,” Franzen’s “Freedom.”  Firmly grounded in time and place, its characters define the time as they’re shaped by the place. Newly published, Chad Harbach’s “The Art of Fielding” could only take place in America. Baseball, a small town, a private college and its

Can art be a salve? In these days of collective mourning, I find myself reaching for the literature of New York. The poetry and stories and novels of a city that offers, above all else, possibility. Read Walt Whitman’s “Mannahatta” and “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.” Grace Paley’s “The Loudest Voice,” a short wallop of a story

I read year round but summer is when I give myself huge chunks of time on a dock or a beach or by the pool to do what I love most: lose myself in a story. Some people think “summer reads” should be light and fun, like the season. My favorite summer reads are dense,