You may not be headed back to school this September, but that’s all the more reason to take some pleasure in autumn’s crop of promising new literary work—you won’t have to pull an all-nighter writing an essay about any of it. Still, there’s far too much on the syllabus of life: how could we hope to wade through all those middling volumes bearing the names Auster and Lethem, the drab legal thrillers and schlock-horror, the overpraised debuts of a thousand MFA-accredited milquetoasts? Well, I did that for you and came back with just the good stuff. Here are the six forthcoming books for which you’ll want to keep an eye out.
Baker is noted for his brilliant and experimental nonfiction (Human Smoke) and pornographic romps through the sexual imagination (House of Holes), but he may be best when dwelling on his real subject: nothing. This novel reintroduces the character Paul Chowder, the writer’s-blocked narrator of The Anthologist, who once again struggles once again to make the meanings in his head take the shape of words. As always, his failure will be what’s compelling.
Another sequel, this one from a fabulist hero still operating at the height of his powers (check out “The Colonel’s Daughter,” his latest New Yorker story, for a taste). This thousand-page novel builds on Coover’s first, The Origin of the Brunists, which describes the formation of an apocalyptic cult around Giovanni Bruno. Apparently the new work gets inside the heads of at least 150 characters, exploring all manners of fundamentalism. Sounds delightfully dizzying.
As if you needed reminding, Pynchon’s 2001: A New York Odyssey is due out in two short weeks (we’re waiting for Amazon to tell us that it’s shipped). Here are a bunch of great reasons to let your anticipation reach a fever pitch.
One of the quiet masters of her time, with a fascinating oeuvre equal to her jaw-dropping biography, Segal returns with her first new novel in six years, a dark comedy exploring an unusual rash of "copycat" Alzheimer’s disease in a New York hospital. Few writers can promise to be so sharply funny on the realities of death and decay, and still Segal never flinches, warm and dispassionate at once.
In the mid-1940s, at the famous Iowa Writers’ Workshop, O’Connor apparently kept a journal devoted solely to matters of her Catholic faith (which, as her fans know, was always integral to her fiction). If you aren’t bowled over by the idea of reading what amounts to O’Connor’s correspondence with god almighty, I don’t know what will light a fire under you.