Lynn Levy

Cosmic laws are rewritten, and a spacecraft launched three decades ago races to become the first human-made object to leave the solar system.

I’ve never really wanted a house.  Whatever gene makes people crave white picket fences, stainless steel appliances and perfectly manicured lawns, I don’t have it. And OK, sure, there’s a little corner of my brain where I fantasize about the kind of built-in bookshelves that require a rolling ladder, but for the most part my dream house is just a safe place to sleep when I’m well and truly exhausted.

Typhoid, a disease forever associated with one woman: Typhoid Mary. You think you know this story, but the details reveal a troubling, very human story behind the anecdote.

Math can get pretty loopy, at least when we try to explain it.

This whole novel takes place in a few minutes, in a quiet room drenched with late-afternoon sun.  As the narrator of Room Temperature feeds his baby daughter, he lets his mind wander—and you get to wander with him, through tiny revelations about nose-picking and green dresses and childhood crimes and mobiles made of paint chips.

Why does selflessness exist?