In her latest graphic novel, “Glass Town,” Isabel Greenberg offers a beautiful meditation on the Bronte family, comingling their upbringing with a fictional universe of their creation.

The last surviving sibling, Charlotte Bronte is our guide, introducing us to boarding schools and the windswept moors of Haworth, the family parish. Charlotte also introduces us to the imaginary worlds of Glass Town and Gondal, fictional settings populated by the siblings, filled with intrigue, rebellion and scandalous romance.

The story begins soon after the two oldest Bronte siblings have died after being exposed to the miseries of a Georgian boarding school. Traumatized, the four remaining siblings–Charlotte, Emily, Anne, and brother Bramwell–returned home and began creating their own fictional African kingdom. Originally populated by heroes and villains of the era, it is gradually overtaken by fresh characters: the caddish aristocrat, Zamorna, the black revolutionary, Quashia, and Quashia’s lover ( and Zamora’s wife), Mary Percy.

In Greenberg’s telling, Glass Town becomes a compulsion for the Bronte siblings, its tropical intrigues proving more alluring than the cold and poverty of Yorkshire. Even as the Brontes grow, and as Charlotte transitions to teaching at a newer, kinder, boarding school, they find themselves susceptible to bouts of “scribbelmania” centered on their fictional kingdom. Charlotte is the most grounded of the Bronte siblings, but even she has to grapple with whether Glass Town is more real–and more satisfying–than real life, especially for a woman in a time when a woman’s prospects were so constrained.

As “Glass Town” kicks off, Charlotte is visited by Charles Wellesley, a character of her own creation. He draws her back into the fictional world she’s left behind, and ultimately offers a choice: venture back or forsake it forever. Their conversations take us through the shared histories of Glass Town and the Bronte siblings, sharing their creativity and challenges.

Greenberg does a beautiful job capturing both words. Her characters are brilliant and prickly, often squabbling but deeply loyal to one another. Her art is evocative too, with thick, roughly sketched scenes and faces. There is something crude in her art, crayon-like and unpolished. Sometimes the effect can be rough, but in repetition the impact is deeply evocative, conveying emotion and a range of otherworldly settings.

In creating “Glass Town,” the author evokes the frayed boundaries between chilly boarding-school rooms and tropical villas, the surprising overlap between a set of poor, clever siblings and some of the greatest literature in the English language. It’s a meditation on creativity and compulsion, and in that regard it’s a beautiful success.

Haunted, resigned, but stiffened with a fierce vein of resistance, August Wilson’s “Gem of the Ocean” is a short play but certainly not a small one.

All of the action takes place in the house of Aunt Esther. She’s a mystic and healer in a Black neighborhood in Pittsburgh sometime after the turn of the last century. It’s a racist place and a violent one too, particularly after a Black worker is accused of stealing a bucket of nails and drowns in the local river, refusing to leave the water while insisting he didn’t commit the crime.

There’s trouble in the aftermath of the drowning, but the frustration that pours forth is deeply rooted, stretching all the way back to slavery and its oppressive aftermath. As peddler Rutherford Selig shares, “They talking about keeping the colored out of Pennsylvania. Say, ‘What do we need them for?’ One man say they ought to send them back down South. I come on past the general store in Ranking and they was talking about, ‘Why can’t we have slavery again?’ One man said ’cause of the law. And somebody said change the law. The man asked him, ‘Would you fight another war?’ And he said, ‘Hell yeah.’ I was surprised when he said that but then I wasn’t too surprised.”

As the play reveals, slavery isn’t past, even in the new century. That’s literally embodied in the character of Aunt Esther, who recalls her tragic journey over the Atlantic and shares at one point that she’s nearly 300 years old. It’s also present in Solly Two Kings, a former Underground Railroad conductor who finds himself gearing up for one last trip to Alabama after his sister writes a letter saying that “the times are terrible here the most anybody remember since bondage.”

In a lean two acts, Wilson does a powerful job connecting past brutality to presents, both in the play’s timeline and in our own. Things have changed some in Pittsburgh; a Black man, Caesar Wilks, is the local constable, charging outrageous rents and shooting boys for stealing a loaf of bread. He gets to speak his mind in the play too. He’s hardened and complicit; but he’s had his own wounds, including a stint on the “county farm.”

Still, Caesar takes the trouble in town personally, knowing that whatever status he’s scraped out relies on his own willingness to enforce the norms of a cruel and racist society. In claiming his place, he’s assumed those same qualities. At one point he rants, “Want to blame me. You know whose fault it is. I’ll tell you whose fault it is. It’s Abraham Lincoln’s fault. He ain’t had no idea what he was doing. He didn’t know like I know. Some of these n***ers was better off in slavery. They don’t know how to act otherwise.”

“Gem of the Ocean” is stuffed with high emotion–protest, anger, guilt. This intensity is nicely balanced with a lively humor, though. There are moments where characters share a meal around a table and crack jokes. “Beans, beans, the musical fruit” even makes an appearance.

But while the humor adds a welcome lightness and humanity to the play, it can’t persist for long before it too is dragged under the weight of time and tragedy. The latter is still too fresh–and too often refreshed–to be set aside for long.

As Solly Two Kings sums up, “I used to be called Uncle Alfred back in slavery. I ran into one fellow called me Uncle Alfred. I told him say, ‘Uncle Alfred dead.’ He say, ‘I’m looking at you.’ I told him, ‘You looking at Two Kings. That’s David and Solomon.’ He must have had something in his ear cause all he heard is Solomon. He say, ‘I’m gonna call you Solly.’ The people been calling me Solly ever since. But my name is Two Kings. Some people call me Solomon and some people call me David. I answer to either one. I don’t know which one God gonna call me. If he call me Uncle Alfred then we got a big fight.”

A cute, cartoony, coming-of-age saga, “Check, Please” features Eric “Bitty” Bittle, a short, former figure skater who heads up to Massachusetts to play hockey at fictional Samwell University. Bitty’s good on the ice, but he didn’t grow up playing hockey, so he faints when faced with the contact that’s inherent to the sport. This leads to some early conflict with the team and its brooding captain, Jack Zimmerman. But it also offers an opportunity for growth, especially once Jack shows his kind side by taking the freshman player under his wing.

Bitty is gay and excited to express himself after growing up in a conservative southern town, where his father (who pointedly doesn’t make an appearance) was the tough high-school football coach. He eventually comes out to his teammates, who are supportive and welcoming.

Indeed, creator Ngozi Ukazu does an excellent job capturing the camaraderie of the squad. From practices to games to blow-out keggers at their hockey “haus,” the team is lively and fun. It’s easy to distinguish the characters, even if most of them have the good-natured “loving life” vibe that Bitty puts off.

Indeed, if I have a critique of the book, it would be that that it’s almost too pleasant. There’s conflict here and there, and Jack’s competitiveness and wounded backstory provide a nice contrast to Bitty’s constant cheer. But it can verge into cutesy in the same way that Scott Pilgrim or Ryan North’s “Squirrel Girl” series can. These are all books that I enjoy, but they presume a level of good will and “everything will work out if we just talk to one another” attitude that verges on utopian to my tastes.

Still, the cast for “Check, Please” is awfully cute, and Ukazu does a great job with the writing and the illustrations. Her characters are distinct, dynamic and capable of delivering a full range of emotions with just their faces and gestures. If you like cheerful coming-of-age stories, this a great comic to check out.

An excellent artifact for Wilco fans, “Let’s Go (So We Can Get Back)” is likely also a worthwhile read for anyone interested in a firsthand look at the music industry as it moved from the label/A&R days into streaming and beyond.

Singer and songwriter Jeff Tweedy walks us through his life, taking us from a rundown, if relatively secure, childhood in Belleville, Illinois to his more elevated experiences playing around in the Wilco loft and making records with his kids. Throughout, he is approachable, candid and often funny.

A good portion of the book is dedicated to the Jays in his life. Jay Farrar, his band co-leader with Uncle Tupelo, is portrayed as distant and withholding, while Jay Bennett, his sparkling Wilco sideman, comes across as warm and addicted (if sometimes scheming).

Tweedy doesn’t shy away from his own addiction and rehab, but his songs are the book’s primary focus. Tweedy admits he isn’t the best singer or guitar player (although I enjoy him in those capacities), but he is an excellent songwriter, prolific, evocative and adaptable. He shares his working method, the core of which seems to be simple, sustained effort.

Tweedy also speaks at length about the anxiety that underlies his mellow public persona, a family trait that seems linked to a tendency to self-medicate. He is game throughout, reliable and generally funny, if prone to a few clunkers in that regard.

Given everything he’s accomplished, though, it’s easy to suspect that he has to be a bit more ambitious than he lets on. The tone in the book is a bit, “aw shucks, it all just happened.” It’s hard to believe it was quite that simple.

But Tweedy shares some real wisdom too, particularly when he reflects that while a band may be important, it’s a temporary arrangement at best, not a blood pact to be preserved at all costs. In one of the blunter moments of the book, Tweedy reflects that he kicked Jay Bennett out of Wilco because he was afraid he was going to die otherwise. It rings true, as does much of his memoir.

Quotes

“When my dad died we put together a playlist of all of ‘his’ songs to play at the funeral home before and after the service. My sons, Spencer and Sammy, fell in love with “Southern Nights” in particular, so after the funeral we drove back to Chicago listening to Glen Campbell in the car. It was beautiful to hear that song through their ears and feel it being liberated from its past, transforming into something with powerful personal meaning for all of us. We just opened the windows and let it blare. And then we got home and learned that Glen Campbell had died. I’m pretty sure we killed Glen Campbell.”

“The look on Jay’s face was tragic. I felt bad for him. This was not a serious vehicle. I’m not sure how we talked him into climbing aboard, and once we did, I have no idea how we got him to stay, because the interior was even worse. White leather, mirrored ceilings, and a purple neon sign in the back lounge informing everyone, in cursive, that they were aboard the ‘Ghost Rider’ lest they forget. So we embarked upon Uncle Tupelo’s last tour learning how to sleep while being shot at eighty miles per hour down the highway inside a metal box that looked like the VIP room at a strip club and made us all feel like we were living inside a cocaine straw.”