Robert Edric

Seven years after the groundbreaking Border trilogy, Cormac McCarthy has returned to that literary landscape he has made his own, the American-Mexican border: a near-fantastic tabula rasa of unmapped and unknowable spaces and histories, populated by people in thrall to geographic and climatic necessity, and for whom both the present and the future represent only a succession of unavoidable challenges; a landscape endlessly redrawn and reshaped in the formulations of new brutalities, new expectations and new desires. No Country for Old Men is perhaps McCarthy’s most contemporary fiction.

Matt Thorne’s new novel might have been more usefully subtitled ‘A Suspension of Disbelief’. A novel called Cherry about sexual desire and manipulation, about a real (or possibly imaginary and perhaps, at best, invented) woman called Cherry, and with a cherry on the jacket. A cherry surrounded by splashes of ...what? Blood, ink, barbecue sauce? Because whatever it is, it probably isn’t cherry juice. A strange and intriguing hybrid of a book: on the one hand firmly rooted in very contemporary obsessions and psychoses — the predictable ‘darker side of love’, according to the blurb — and on the other hand teetering on the crumbling and endlessly reforming brink of allegory and psychotic fantasy.

Introducing the first true Dave Eggers’ McSweeney production (and it is a production — jacket, binding, illustrations, chapter headings and all) to be published here, Michael Chabon explains that the starting point for this eclectic collection is the notion that all the short genre fiction which once supported American magazines of the Fifties should be considered no less valid a part of the present literary landscape as the ‘sparkling, plotless and epiphanic’ stories of which it is all too often currently comprised. Where today, he asks — and here one has to wonder how hard he actually looked — is the ghost story, the horror story, the detective story, the story of suspense, terror, fantasy or the macabre?

In 1909, in a late letter to his brother, Henry James bemoaned the fact that the 'novel of ideas' - the novel 'built on the momentum and inspiration found in a solid, sustainable and infinitely expandable idea' - was finally dead, and that it had died from 'lack of want or appetite in the reading public'. He complained that the modern novel was too often concerned only with the 'circumstance of character and enforced narrative', that 'novelty and fantasy and the banality of everyday ordinariness' now held sway. Nicholas Mosley has written a novel of which James would have wholeheartedly approved. Inventing God is an unfashionable, unpredictable novel in which the characters and their interactions are wholly dependent on and sustained by the exploration of the ideas at their centre.

Few admirers of Faber's recent spate of tales and novellas - the spacious and admirably unadorned The Courage Consort and The Hundred and Ninety-Nine Steps, for instance - will be prepared for the solid and all-inclusive recreation of (an echo here of Iain Sinclair's White Chappell, Scarlet Tracings) The Crimson Petal and the White. Twenty years in the making, Faber's latest work boldly proclaims itself and its High Victorian intentions from the outset.

VJ night, the war in the Pacific is finally over, and in William Kennedy's Albany the war of senatorial election is about to begin. The candidates stand up to be counted and the consequences of their election are considered. Small crooks fresh out of crook school and the army rise into the lower reaches of these considerations. Bigger crooks and politicians start to circle each other and to watch their backs.