Who wants to spend the summer flipping through accounts of brooding characters just like us who suffer the same problems we do? Not me. I’ve read a bookmobile of contemporary novels in the past five years but can recall exactly two that I’d read again—genre novels both. Genre fiction may be the bane of lit-crit eggheads, but what isn’t exciting about whip-smart word artists applying fresh paint to tried-and-true constructs? This summer, publishers seem to have caught the bug: the season’s best adventure stories are genre yarns that free you from the Connecticut in your mind.
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