Small woodland creature fiction is such a relatable genre. It's hard not to feel like a tiny mouse, scurrying across the face of larger systems, hoping that some predator won't decide to make me some quickly digested snack.

Mrs. Frisby is the high water mark of rodent fiction. It so cleanly captures the feeling of helplessness of modernity but also the ability to make change. The avenues of both individual and systemic change are clear to Mrs. Frisby and, I suppose, are clear to me as well. You are not going to change the world, but with vim and luck in equal measure (and a dead husband with powerful friends), you can change the world around you.

Also, this is such a mob book in line with the gangsters of New York— A young widow discovers that her husband was a part of a secret organization of illicit lawbreakers with powers beyond her imagination. Her name opens doors that would normally remain closed. She apologizes to her neighbors for the rough looking crowd that helps her move. You should never forget that Mrs. Frisby's story only has a happy ending because her Jonathon Frisby was a made mouse.