It’s not my temperament—God knows why I’m allowed to work here—to write a serious book review. I can only muster the strength to write one when particularly indebted to a new work. So here’s the deal: last week a book chose me.

“Chosen” is the way I feel when the book I need is the book I get. I was so moved I read it again the following day and bought copies for friends. Justin Torres’s We the Animals, a 125-page novel published in 2011 to prophetic reviews, has obviously chosen a lot of other people, too. (I’m not jealous, I’m just late to the party.) It’s a wrenching, brilliant book about boys and anger and love. Each chapter is self-contained, lending it the compression and feel of a story collection, but the focus and ambition of a much bigger novel. Each move, every sentence, resonates. If you like that kind of thing, you’ll love Torres, who is also apparently super attractive: Salon’s Sexiest Men.

When you spot We the Animals on a friend’s shelf, take it. If the book has been lingering in your Amazon shopping cart since 2011, go ahead and treat yourself. Pair with a piña colada and slippers, and you’ll have a fantastic, blubbering Saturday afternoon. It’s an all-at-once kind of read so please, hydrate well, make time, and enjoy.