Once upon a time, Dr. Isaac Asimov attempted to explain the world to everybody. When I was growing up, I devoured both his science fiction and his non-fiction, learning a lot about what had already happened in the world, what was happening at the present, and what yet might happen. I enjoyed his non-fiction books and thought he was really good at explaining science to the layman.

But these days my heart belongs to Mary Roach! I will never stray. She’s only written three books, but she’s already captured every inquisitive bone and impulse in my body. She’s written articles for Reader’s Digest and National Geographic and her curiosity and propensity for knowledge and instruction seem inexhaustible.

Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers revealed what happened to a body after death. Granted, some stuff maybe I wasn’t too thrilled about learning – at first – but Roach took out (most) of the gross effect and totally turned the exercise into an instructional laughfest filled with history and fantastic errata. And the fascination of the subject, as well as her own passion for it, removed the stomach-churn of the experience

In Spook: Science Tackles The Afterlife, Roach brought the same kind of intelligent, informative wit to the study of the afterlife and the existence of souls. I knew people were interested in proving the existence of such one way or the other, but I’d never before known to what lengths scientists (and armchair enthusiasts) had gone.

Now Roach delivers, Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex, a hardcore – sorry, couldn’t resist – look at the mysteries and mismanagement of sex. When I first saw the plain white, almost virginal book cover, I was entranced. Could a book on that subject really be called by that title? I couldn’t help thinking how risqué everyone involved was being.

But I couldn’t expect anything less of Mary Roach. All (or at least more than I’d ever before guessed at) of the secrets of sex are revealed between the covers, so to speak. She details several of the curious minds that probed into the subject, and the test patients that laid themselves bare. (See? Even I can’t approach this subject with a straight face and the occasional ill-conceived giggle and pun.)

I also love history, and Mary Roach makes the most of the study of sex within those parameters as well. She left no rock unturned in her pursuit of this forbidden knowledge that civilization had invented. I knew that the scientists covered regularly in elementary and junior high science classes dug into the field of sex, but I’d never before known exactly to what degree. Nor did I know that some of them might even have murdered patients to gain knowledge. (I mean, how likely is it that a scientist would happen upon the body of a woman who’d died in the throes of orgasm so he could examine her corpse to better understand that function?)

Another thing I love about Mary Roach is that she’s apparently willing to go anywhere to seek out knowledge and report back to the armchair scientists who can’t afford to go and wouldn’t be caught dead asking such questions. (And that’s one of the reasons I like Mike Rowe on Dirty Jobs.)

For this book, Mary Roach interviewed dozens of people, examined dozens of secret documents, took a tour of a pig farm and watched sows get artificially inseminated, first hand (by hand!), and even enticed her own husband into having sex while being subjected to an MRI. I have to admit, that after seeing Roach in action – forgive me – I can’t help but believe that has to be one of the most interesting marriages in the world. I love my wife, but I’m not crawling up onto an MRI table to be watched by scientists for anybody.

Roach goes on to explore several other reconstructive surgery avenues physicians and surgeons have pursued over the year. Just when you think she can’t top the last chapter, all you have to do is turn the page.

If you haven’t discovered Mary Roach, if you think reading Masters and Johnson’s Human Sexual Response has made you an expert in the field, pick up Bonk and become truly educated and amazed. Her chapter on Master and Johns, and their peers, casts that research in a totally different light and I found myself alternately appalled and amused.

The science field has a new champion ready to educate and entertain the masses, and her name is Mary Roach. I can’t wait to see where she’s going next.

When you read Hidden Letters, the book is going to leave a mark. It’s going to hurt down deep and leave you thinking about things long after you’ve finished the book. After receiving the book, I admit to approaching the book warily. The subject matter is brutal, and it’s devastating to anyone who’s a parent.

First, a little history on the book. The letters that comprise the human narrative within the pages were discovered in Amsterdam in 1997. They were written by an eighteen year old Dutch Jew named Philip “Flip” Slier. He was sent to a Dutch labor camp in 1942. When first sent there, Slier believed he was going to be treated humanely, though restricted. He didn’t know the horror that awaited him, or that he would soon be dead.

At the time Slier first went to the work camps, letters shipped regularly between the families and the restricted men. As I read the letters, I was stunned by the naïve manner that Slier exhibited. He honestly thought he was only going to be there for a short time, and that his experiences there would be nothing more than what he would endure during some summer camp.

As a father of five, I know how innocent kids can be. They think they know so much, but they’re blind to so many things. They often don’t know they’re in over their heads until it’s much too late.

And that’s what happened with Slier.

I felt somewhat guilty while reading his letters, almost voyeuristic into a world of pain and innocence. The letters are inane and even cheerful. At times Slier obviously felt he was on some grand adventure. At other times I could see that he was putting on a front for his parents, acting brave while he was scared to death, or at least mightily confused by what was going on around him.

That human element, and that innocence, is what is going to haunt me about the book. Slier also took a camera with him. He took several pictures and sent them back home to his parents and friends, and those people managed to hang onto them throughout the blackest days of World War II. I saw his face, and I saw how much of a kid he still was. He aged decades in months, and he finally got killed.

That’s one side of the story, but the authors added a tremendous amount of history materials to further the reader’s understanding of what was going on in this area at this time. More pictures and maps fill the book. On one hand, Hidden Letters is a short journal of tumultuous times in a young man’s life, but on the other hand the book is a great historical record. I love history, and I equate it with the story of people rather than names and dates. But Philip Slier’s story truly brings home the fact that history is made up of people more than dates or events.

Hidden Letters is going to satisfy the armchair historian’s perusal of the time period, and will give some sense of people and what was going on to genealogists that have discovered they’ve got family members that were in this camps at the same time. For either of those groups, I’m sure the book would be a beneficial addition.

The parents saved those letters all those years. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to pull them out every so often and read the last words of their lost son.

I’ve dealt with depression and a bipolar condition all of my life. When I was younger, I didn’t know what it was. At that point, it just manifested itself as a heavy sadness that would hit about every six months or so and last for about a week. Unfortunately, as I grew older and got knocked about by life every so often – especially when I got hammered through no fault of my own and didn’t see the reason for it, that cycle accelerated and started lasting longer.

During those intervening years, I also pushed my writing hobby (probably cathartic in the beginning) into a full-time career. Which meant that I was forced to (and still do) live primarily out of my own head. That’s not always a pleasant place to be. Too many nightmares exist there. And I’ve learned throughout my life where all the weak points are. When I’m in a downward spiral, I attack myself unmercifully. When I’m in an upward spiral, I can’t sit still. I started figuring out my own coping mechanism, based on materials and books I’d read. But that was only after I figured out what I was going through was different than the life other people dealt with. In fact, my first clues as to what I had to face were given to me by friends that suffered from the same anxieties and pressures.These conditions aren’t easy to deal with for the person who has them. Or for the people around them.

When I first read about Terri Cheney’s book, Manic, I immediately wanted to review it. Here was a successful person who admittedly dealt with the same issues I had, but I didn’t know how honest she was going to be about those problems. After reading Cheney’s book in a single sitting (because I was mesmerized at watching a train wreck in motion and thinking how similar our strategies for self-destruction were), I have to admit that I couldn’t find a single pulled punch. Cheney lays her life out there for inspection and offers no apologies for it. I have to admit, in a lot of ways she had it worse than I did. I had kids at an early age and couldn’t allow myself to go full-tilt down some of those dark passageways that she explored. I think they were my anchor, though I know that isn’t always the case for everyone.

Chaney’s book describes her failed relationships, her attempts at chemical and electroshock therapy, her moments of self-discovery, and the seeming impossibility of merely coping in ways that I immediately understood. I don’t know if laymen will truly appreciate everything she’s done because you have to walk a mile (or several years) in our shoes to know how huge that mountain is to navigate.

People who have never dealt with bipolar tendencies or depression, or never had to share their lives with someone that did, probably won’t understand everything Cheney writes about. Even without that insight, though, she tells a compelling story. And as every bipolar person is subject to doing, she jumps around in her narrative. I’m also ADHD and I’m willing to bet Cheney is to a degree as well. That’s part of the creative mind as well, and part of what allows us to function at a high level on our own.

I loved this book. It’s a savage song of survival, and a rebuttal of conventional life. The average life would be a wonderful thing, but it’s not attainable by everyone. Cheney’s book may not celebrate that, but she acknowledges it.

Whether you read for understanding, or just a voyeuristic interest in peeking into someone else’s life, Manic is heart-wrenching and a definite gut-check for those who don’t realize how good they have it. I don’t know if Cheney plans any more books, but I’ll definitely be in line to pick them up if she does.