As the unofficial “gratitude correspondent” for the Atlantic, James Parker has written countless odes of appreciation on subjects from the seemingly minor (“Ode to Naps”) to the unexpected (“Ode to Giving People Money”) to the seemingly minor, unexpected and hyper-specific (“Ode to Running in Movies”). Finally collecting Parker’s beloved and much-lauded odes in one place, this volume demonstrates the profound power of the form. Each ode celebrates the permanent susceptibility of everyday humdrum life to dazzling saturations of divine light: the squirrel in the street, the crying baby, the misplaced cup of tea. Parker’s odes are songs of praise but with a decent amount of complaining in there, too: a human ratio of moans. Our politics are broken; our world is melting. Parker’s odes offer respite but also a glimmer of hope. They represent encounters with whatever might get us through the next five minutes of the impossible, beautiful, overwhelming thing we call living.

As the unofficial “gratitude correspondent” for the Atlantic, James Parker has written countless odes of appreciation on subjects from the seemingly minor (“Ode to Naps”) to the unexpected (“Ode to Giving People Money”) to the seemingly minor, unexpected and hyper-specific (“Ode to Running in Movies”). Finally collecting Parker’s beloved and much-lauded odes in one place, this volume demonstrates the profound power of the form. Each ode celebrates the permanent susceptibility of everyday humdrum life to dazzling saturations of divine light: the squirrel in the street, the crying baby, the misplaced cup of tea. Parker’s odes are songs of praise but with a decent amount of complaining in there, too: a human ratio of moans. Our politics are broken; our world is melting. Parker’s odes offer respite but also a glimmer of hope. They represent encounters with whatever might get us through the next five minutes of the impossible, beautiful, overwhelming thing we call living.