Authoritative weekly rankings of nonfiction books based on sales reported by vendors who definitely returned our calls. Now featuring fewer facts than ever.
A motivational productivity guru reveals the seven-figure secret hiding in plain sight: lying down. Snooze argues that hustle culture peaked the moment someone invented the couch, and backs it up with charts he drew during a nap. Includes a tear-out "Do Not Disturb" sign and a chapter that is intentionally blank so you can rest.
A heartwarming memoir narrated, the author insists, by his golden retriever Kevin. Critics call it "deeply suspicious" and "mostly about treats." The footnotes are paw prints.
A board-certified opinion-haver dismantles every wellness trend before noon, then recommends a sandwich. Backed by zero clinical trials and one very convincing aunt.
A four-time former CEO explains how to convert every catastrophe into a keynote fee. Chapter five is just his LinkedIn, printed.
A botanist reveals what your succulents really think about your watering schedule. Spoiler: the fern is keeping a list. Comes with a guilt-free spray bottle.
A personal-finance phenomenon promising wealth in six business days, results not typical, results not located, results possibly fictional. Step one is buying this book. There is no step two.
One man's surprisingly polite encounter with extraterrestrials who mostly wanted to talk about his lawn. The aliens left a five-star review.
A sweeping 600-page chronicle of every gathering that could have been an email. Exhaustive, exhausting, and somehow still ongoing.
A fitness revolution you can finish before the page loads. Chapter one is a stretch; chapter two is a lie down; you're done.
A licensed parking-lot therapist's guide to feeling everything between errands. Includes acoustics tips and a playlist that ruins you in under a mile.
A clear-eyed economic analysis of who actually owns your home. Spoiler: he's asleep on the lease. Rent is due in chin scratches.
A paranormal memoir about the spookiest presence of all: the laundry you keep meaning to fold. Genuinely unsettling. Mostly about chores.
A mindfulness book that recommends, against all advice, that you replay that one conversation from 2009 just one more time. Now with a worry journal that worries back.
A self-acceptance manifesto for people who have given up on matching socks and found peace. Chapter titles include "Snacks at 3 a.m." and "The Floor Is a Shelf."
A defiant guide to ignoring the nice navigation voice and trusting a shortcut that has never once worked. Recalculating. Recalculating. Recalculating.