The story opens in 1937 with a letter penned by a young man named Robert informing his parents that he is leaving for Spain with his buddy, Max, whose family “woke up one morning with a Star of David burned into their front yard.” Max, with his keen sense of injustice, feels compelled to go to Spain to fight against Franco; he is killed, leaving Robert on his own. In a moment of courage, Robert fires his rifle, killing a soldier on horseback who is about to murder a young boy. Maria del Carmen Escobar, the young boy’s sister, hides Robert in an old olive oil jar deep in the ground, where he remains for decades. The narrative jumps to 1969, when Michael Virtue, recently graduated from college, is motorcycling in Spain thinking about his uncle Robert, about whom he heard stories when he was a child. After crashing his motorcycle, Michael meets Carmen, who tells him Robert is dead, but she never shows him his grave. Twenty years later, Michael returns to Spain to investigate what happened to Robert. He brings with him the mysterious Delia, who is on the run from the FBI, and he reconnects with Carmen. Averett’s large cast of emotionally complex characters is psychologically tormented by literal and figurative remnants (from old ruins to whispered stories) of the Spanish Civil War. As one character says, “when the body dies, what remains are the stories. They never die.” The author deftly limns each character’s wounds: Michael is obsessed with ferreting out the truth about his uncle; Eugenio, an increasingly deranged military officer, seeks revenge for the murder of a family member; and both Delia and Carmen nurse damaged souls. Via quietly intense and emotionally resonant prose, readers are immersed in a world of psychological distress and mystery.

“The sacred bones of a literary culture [are] being ground into dust by technology and AI and many other distractions,” writes essayist Allen. To help remedy this decay, she offers a set of appreciative essays on canonical European and Anglophone writers, focusing on the personalities of writers and how fictional and historical characters interact to offer lessons in living lives of beauty. Many of her writers—Samuel Butler, Somerset Maugham, Osbert Sitwell, and Ogden Nash, among others—achieved success despite hardship or criticism. “Light verse used to be a vital part of American culture, high and low,” Allen writes in her essay on Nash. Why has Sybille Bedford never escaped her status as “one of the twentieth century’s most attractive literary curiosities?” How can the plays of Horton Foote teach us that “we are all orphans wandering alone through life, and the consolations of community and family are fleeting at best?” The more you read these essays, the more you are convinced that there is something wrong with you: Distracted by modernity, you have lost grace and humor in the face of, writes Allen, “our Robespierrean practice of cancellation.” Most of Allen’s writers remain products of their own time, with their own prejudices and foibles. Can we truly get past Patricia Highsmith’s misanthropy? Can we forget Sitwell’s politics? Is Truman Capote anything other than the self-caricature he became? Many of these essays originally appeared in venues noted for their highly curated conservatism: the New Criterion, the Wall Street Journal, Christianity Today. Published over the past 25 years, they offer a road map to a reader unhappy with the way the world has turned out.

Aspiring author Aurelia Lyndham has struggled with writer’s block since the deaths of her mother and Aunt Marigold, which occurred less than a year apart. To cope with these losses, she focuses on running On the Square Books, a bookshop she inherited from Marigold. The business has a specialized inventory—it only sells books written by authors born before 1900. It also holds an incredible surprise. After hearing voices coming from the shop late at night, Aurelia discovers that characters from the books on her Recommended Reads table have emerged from the pages to socialize. She befriends various figures from classic literature, including Count Vronsky from Anna Karenina and Elinor and Marianne Dashwood from Sense and Sensibility. Aurelia is soon living a double life, running the bookshop by day and spending time with the literary characters at night. When Count Vronsky laments his tragic and unsettled fate, Aurelia discovers the inspiration she needs to write again. Her project piques the interest of book editor Oliver Pearce; as Aurelia and Oliver work on editing her novel, their friendship and collaboration leads to a deeper attraction, and Aurelia begins to wonder if she will find a happy ending in her own life. Andersen’s debut romance is a charming tale of a writer finding inspiration and a chance at true love via the characters in her favorite classic novels. Aurelia is an amiable protagonist who’s trying to rebuild her life after two devastating losses; her relationship with Oliver Pearce is well developed and cleverly mirrors the story she develops for Count Vronsky. Andersen is a talented storyteller with a knack for vivid descriptions. In one scene, a literary character reaches for a book, “Only—his hand went right through it, turning into a white mist with what looked like black dots running across it…or were they letters?” The novel is an appealing blend of fantasy and romance, rooted in a love of classic novels.

The story opens in 1995 with the suicide of a woman named Nilima, which sends her husband, Ripon, spiraling into grief. The couple ran a poultry farm and sold eggs in Bangladesh, but after inclement weather and the disease Ranikhet ravaged their brood, it appeared they would not be able to pay off their loan. The woman’s death also leaves behind an infant daughter; the husband is unable to take care of her by himself. The narrative cuts to the present, when a young woman named Irene Sebastian travels to Bangladesh on a work trip. While there, she contacts an NGO to investigate the adoption of a little girl brought to the United States. It becomes clear that the crying baby left behind by the grieving widower and his dead wife is now the adult Irene, and Mohit uses the rest of the novel to fill in her life story after her arrival in America, including a traumatic car crash and an adoption by a white American couple. This is a novel about self-discovery and family with an affecting opening vignette; the husband’s all-consuming grief remains the story’s most memorable element, and Irene’s adoptive mother’s leukemia diagnosis adds an additional moving emotional layer to the latter half of the novel. Unfortunately, Irene isn’t very well drawn. She is an overachiever, idealistic about her globalist satellite company, Starlink (and her boss, Elon Musk), but Mohit characterizes her as overly deferential and vacuous. (What does she find so meaningful about this company and her work? It’s unclear.) The reader learns very little about her inner life, and the prose often reads as flat and cliché (a character “absorbed [information] like a sponge”; another experiences a “storm swirling in her mind”). With an outcome that feels inevitable, there’s little here to encourage the reader to keep going.

This debut story collection lifts its title from a 1909 manifesto co-authored by urban designer Daniel H. Burnham, which also provides the epigram invoking the city’s motto: “Urbs in Horto—a city set in a garden.” More than a century later, that garden is no Eden. There are way more cracks than flowers: cracks in the foundation; psychological cracks in the narrators and characters, whose vernacular provides the style of these stories. Cracks in their relationships, their marriages, their families. Yet there is also great resilience, through the survival skills necessary in a city that plays rough. In “Enumerator,” the opening and longest story, Margaret Cieslak-Jablonski, a Polish immigrant, loses her American husband and gains a job as a census taker. She lives on a block so undistinguished that it isn’t considered part of any of the northwest neighborhoods around it: “No one wanted to claim that swath of poor transients, weedy lots, and industrial waste.” Her temp job has her tracking and counting those who are ever farther off the grid. And she’s very good at it, learning the stories of those who had otherwise evaded scrutiny and gaining entry where she isn’t legally permitted. “Out of Egypt” follows, with a teenage boy named Izzy Bramaciu apparently unconscious in the hospital, from a car accident arranged by his scamming father for insurance fraud. Then “Chez Whatever,” where very white Lincoln Park finds a Black girl increasingly frustrated and resentful in a Valentine’s Day blizzard, following a fight with her more privileged white girlfriend. “Dibs” explores the Chicago tradition of saving winter parking places amid the gentrification of a frequently changing Humboldt Park. The progression of the stories connects neighborhoods, with protagonists in one story becoming bit players in another.