I don’t know about other readers, but generally, as soon as a jacket blurb mentions something like “intergenerational saga” or “centuries-long family lore,” I roll my eyes and drop the book like the proverbial hot potato, sure it’s going to tax me with keeping track of 27 characters and five time periods. For whatever reason, this time, I kept reading past that ominous descriptor, and I’m so glad I did as Margaret Wilkerson Sexton’s moving and engrossing novel, The Revisioners, is one of the best I have read in recent years.

Chapters rotate across three time periods and center on two main characters, Josephine, who was born into slavery but who claims freedom at an early age and lives a long life in Louisiana, and Ava, her great, great-granddaughter, who lives in contemporary New Orleans with her pre-teen son and—in an unexpected twist that becomes increasingly unsettling—her wealthy, white paternal grandmother with dementia. In addition, both Josephine’s and Ava’s own mothers feature vividly in their respective chapters, deepening the layers of national and personal history that Sexton so realistically and poignantly depicts. The maternal line in this family is also characterized by certain gifts of understanding and sight, both earthly and other-earthly, which create a shadowy but certain bond that steadily solidifies among the women as the plot progresses.

Conflicts between our protagonists and somewhat minor but all too powerful white characters in all time periods make for suspenseful, unsettling scenes and, as you might expect, lead to heartbreak and trauma for both Josephine and Ava. Believe me, I cried (well, even sobbed) more than once at the outcome of certain events, but Sexton isn’t after “easy tears”; they would be pointless if not accompanied by genuine acknowledgment of and determination not to hide from our nation’s painful and shameful past, especially on the part of white readers. Even so, the novel’s conclusion (in Ava’s time/place) points towards healing and hope for this family that has endured so much.

I won’t spoil the surprise of the title’s origin and its place in this book (or in which of the three generations of Black American women it is featured), but I found this plot-dependent entity and the way it informs and almost foretells key characters’ lives one of the most poignant and satisfying conceits Sexton employs. I couldn’t recommend this book more emphatically for anyone looking for a serious and unforgettable, not to mention timely, contribution to American literature.

Gonzales is both a non-fiction and fiction writer, whose excellent articles I've read in well-known publications like The Atlantic Monthly. This book is the first novel of hers I've read, and I was not disappointed.

Our two key narrators are Anita, a Latina artist whose husband, we discover right away, killed her in 1980s New York City; and Raquel, a Latina art student in late 1990s Rhode Island, trying to find her way in a predominantly white and privileged community while also maintaining and respecting her cultural roots.

Both Anita (who narrates from the world of the dead and who can use a form of Santeria to manifest her actions and "essence" to people still living) and Raquel share the experience of falling for privileged and self-involved white men, both of whom are controlling and abusive in various ways. While Anita is a fighter to the last, Raquel's self-confidence rises slowly but steadily throughout the novel until the finale when readers see her blossom into a woman who can and will stand up for herself and for her family and true friends.

Beyond the two women's dangerous (and in Anita's case. deadly) relationships with controlling white men, the other linked plotline centers on Anita's art work being gradually erased after her death and the promise that Raquel will somehow unearth those works and breathe new life into them. My only quibble with the progress of this plotline is that its resolution felt rather rushed, not quite providing the satisfaction that a slower, longer narrative of Anita's re-discovery would have.

Gonzales's writing style is propulsive in parts and poetic in others. Her two protagonists are drawn vividly, and even without the named alternating chapters, it would be hard to confuse one voice with another. The conclusion of both narrators' stories shines a light on the importance of women defining themselves outside their roles in men's lives. I think Gonzales also does well to portray Anita and Raquel not simply as victims of male violence and general douche-baggery but as flawed, smart, emotionally conflicted women whose sexual and romantic decisions are as fraught with passion and blind spots as any real-life woman's is.

This beautiful exploration of living in the moment centers on the relationship between a brilliant math professor, his young housekeeper and her 10-year-old son. The professor suffered a traumatic brain injury decades earlier, limiting his
short-term memory to only 80 minutes. She is hired to care for this unique, challenging client. And every morning, the housekeeper and the professor meet anew, creating this strange, yet lovely relationship that blossoms between them. The damaged yet lively mind of the professor allows him discover connections in everyday items like shoe sizes and the universe at large, an eye-opening experience for mother and child as their lives draw closer together. The short novel focuses on those mathematical equations and the emotional connections that create a unique family. The 2009 English translation is available as a PPLD book club set. The novel's bibliography cites The Man Who Loved Only Numbers, a biography of Paul Erdos, on which the professor character is based. The 2003 novel, original title The Professor's Beloved Equation, won the Hon'ya Taisho award. It was a massive bestseller in the prolific, well-regarded Ogawa's native country.