Reviewing is not static regurgitation—it is not pumping out synopses but filtering words through one's self: speaking to whether I enjoyed or didn’t enjoy a book; whether the knowledge was worthwhile or worthless; whether the whole experience came together into something greater than ink on a page. I respect the books I choose to spend my time with, and I expect them to respect me. I never sit down with a book and cackle eagerly as I scheme to hoist the author by his or her own petard. I am open to the words—I want to hear them. That is why I am reading. Books, ideally, have my trust until they lose it; I try my best not to crack a cover with my view already askance, awaiting the narrative to conform to my expectations before I will accept what it says. On Immunity didn’t insult me. It isn’t trying to sell me something, isn’t trying to change my mind or shame anyone or garner more clicks with inflammatory rhetoric. It makes statements; it supports them with evidence. It conveys thoughts; it presents them as logical and introspective. It is a lovely book, honest to what it is; no polemic but a narrative absorbing and reforming the zeitgeist around vaccination.

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