Little Weirds
<b>One of <i>Vanity Fair'</i>s Great Quarantine Reads: Step into Jenny Slate's wild imagination in this "magical" (Mindy Kaling), "delicious" (Amy Sedaris), and "poignant" (John Mulaney) <i>New York Times</i> bestseller about love, heartbreak, and being alive -- "this book is something new and wonderful" (George Saunders).</b><br /><br /> You may "know" Jenny Slate from her Netflix special, <i>Stage Fright</i>, as the creator of Marcel the Shell, or as the star of "Obvious Child." But you don't really <i>know</i> Jenny Slate until you get bonked on the head by her absolutely singular writing style. To see the world through Jenny's eyes is to see it as though for the first time, shimmering with strangeness and possibility.<br /><br /> As she will remind you, we live on an ancient ball that rotates around a bigger ball made up of lights and gasses that are science gasses, not farts (don't be immature). Heartbreak, confusion, and misogyny stalk this blue-green sphere, yes, but it is also a place of wild delight and unconstrained vitality, a place where we can start living as soon as we are born, and we can be born at any time. In her dazzling, impossible-to-categorize debut, Jenny channels the pain and beauty of life in writing so fresh, so new, and so burstingly alive, we catch her vision like a fever and bring it back out into the bright day with us, where everything has changed.