“Doctorow:

Collected Stories”

E.L. Doctorow

Random House, $30

E.L. Doctorow is best known and admired for novels such as “Ragtime” and “The Book of Daniel,” in which he uses his imagination to alter and enrich factual events. People plucked from history — J.P. Morgan, Houdini, Emma Goldman, Freud, and Ethel and Julius Rosenberg among them — engage fictionally with one another, as well as with a fleet of invented characters. Asked by the editor Ted Solotaroff whether two of those real-life figures had ever actually met, as depicted in a scene in “Ragtime,” Mr. Doctorow replied, “Well, now they have.” 

That kind of winning self-confidence is apparent not only in his novels, but also, it turns out, in his short stories.

The novels have notably strong political and social content, which might at first glance seem to be missing from the stories. “Willi,” which opens “Doctorow: Collected Stories,” is an intense account of sexual passion, obsession, and betrayal, culminating in an act of physical violence. The story is set at a nonspecific time in an unspecified rural place, ostensibly removed from the world at large, until the final two sentences. “This was in Galicia in the year 1910. All of it was to be destroyed anyway, even without me.” 

A more blatantly political tale, tipped off in its title, “Child, Dead, in the Rose Garden,” was originally published in 2003, during George W. Bush’s administration, but it feels chillingly current. When the shrouded body of a small boy is found in the White House Rose Garden after a National Arts and Humanities function, paranoia and attack mode quickly set in. A White House liaison says, “Wouldn’t you think it figures, from this crowd, something disgusting like this? . . . Not that I ever expect the artists, the writers, to show gratitude to the country they live in. They’re all knee-jerk anti-Americans.” 

The dead child can’t be immediately identified, but a consulting psychologist from the C.I.A. speculates, “This feels to me like an Arab thing,” before adding, “Then he could be from where they hate us. . . . He could be a Muslim kid.” Terrorism is on everyone’s mind, even after the suspected vest of explosives is ruled out. Instead, the asthmatic child wears a bronchodilator on a lanyard around his neck. Viewed on a lab table, the body’s “little chest was expanded, as if the kid was pretending to be Charles Atlas.” He’s dubbed P.K., for Posthumous Kid, by F.B.I. agents. Numerous people are detained and interrogated, deportation is threatened, and various cover-ups are invented. 

The incident never happened. The abandoned body wasn’t a child, after all, but a rabid raccoon, requiring everyone (including the first dog) to be tested. And the elderly widowed groundskeeper who made the discovery in the Rose Garden may be suffering from dementia.

The nearly retired Special Agent B.W. Molloy is brought in to serve as the chief investigator of the case and the conscience of the story. As he methodically probes and scrutinizes, tracking down the identity of the body and who put it there and why, he also looks backward at his own career, and inward. Had he wasted his life? “Whatever his motives, it was a fact that he’d spent [it] contending with deviant behavior, and only occasionally wondering if some of it was not justifiable.” 

The unraveling of the mystery of the dead child in the Rose Garden, in all its tragedy and complexity, becomes secondary to Molloy’s discoveries about himself.

The propulsively readable “Walter John Harmon,” concerning a cult led by a con artist (and former auto mechanic) who absconds with his worshipers’ funds, along with one of their wives, also seems eerily prophetic when it’s discovered that Harmon, who’d never wanted anything written down, had drawn up elaborate plans, before his departure, to build a wall around his community. 

Among my personal favorites in this collection is “The Writer in the Family,” the first-person narration of a gifted adolescent boy named Jonathan, charged by relatives with writing letters to his paternal grandmother, purportedly from his recently dead father, so that she will not suffer the knowledge of his death. Caught between his destitute, embittered mother and his rich, imperious aunt — the perfectly titled “Frances of Westchester” — Jonathan obeys the latter, up to a point. 

Precociously resourceful, he invents a new life in Arizona for his father, where he prospers as he never did in his actual life. His brother questions the necessity of the arrangement — “Does the situation really call for a literary composition? . . . Would the old lady know the difference if she was read the phone book?”

And their mother objects to this final manipulation of her late husband in the service of protecting her despised mother-in-law. “He can’t even die when he wants to!” she cries. “Even death comes second to Mama! What are they afraid of, the shock will kill her? Nothing can kill her. She’s indestructible! A stake through the heart couldn’t kill her!” 

The pleasures of this story are myriad — the dark and often hilarious politics of family, the arc of the boy’s shifting loyalties, and, as in all of Mr. Doctorow’s work, the keen emotional insight. “I thought how stupid, and imperceptive, and self-centered I had been never to have understood while he was alive what my father’s dream for his life had been.” In his bold, final letter “from Arizona,” Jonathan attempts to ameliorate this harsh judgment of himself. 

“Wakefield,” inspired by the Haw­thorne story of the same name, but reset in modern suburbia, is another standout. Partly by accident and partly by design, a man finds himself living in the garage attic of his own home. From this hideout, he can, unobserved, observe his wife and children and contemplate his marriage. This is a popular, perhaps irresistible, premise among contemporary writers — Andrei Codrescu and Daniel Stern also wrote stories with the same title and similar theses.

In Mr. Doctorow’s version, Wakefield wonders, “What is there about a family that is so sacrosanct . . . that one should have to live in it for one’s whole life, however unrealized one’s life was?” He recalls infuriating, Cheever-like arguments with his wife, Diana, in which she addresses him by his surname (“one of her feminist adaptations of the locker-room style that I detested”). And he envisions her morphed into her own mother — “the widow Babs,” who opposed the marriage — in 30 years, “high-heeled, ceramicized, liposucted, devaricosed, her golden fall of hair as shiny and hard as peanut brittle.” Yet Wakefield also notes Diana’s enduring grace and beauty, declares his steadfast love for her, and, as the days and weeks go by, feels “despicably lonely.”

There are writerly gems throughout this collection. A grade-school teacher in “The Hunter” reads aloud to the residents of an old people’s home. “They sit there and listen to the story. They are the children’s faces in another time.” Later, the teacher poses with her young students for a class photo, “holding her hands in front of her, like an opera singer.” A music box in “Baby Wilson” plays “ ‘Columbia the Gem of the Ocean,’ as if anyone would want to hear it more than once.” 

In “Jolene: A Life,” Phoenix is seen by the title character as “a hot, flat city of the desert, but with a lot of fast-moving people who lived inside their air-conditioning.” And the description, in the same story, of the “busyness” of an empty street at 3 in the morning, which reads like the literary caption for a Hopper painting, concludes, “It was the world going on as if people were the last thing it needed or wanted.” 

A few complaints of redundancy have been made about this volume, because all of the included stories had been previously published, in varied assortments, in other collections, while others have been left out. But several of the stories here seem deeply interconnected by their reflections on the way we live now, in families and in society — most particularly regarding the urgent and contentious matters of immigration and assimilation. 

A priest in “Child, Dead, in the Rose Garden” remarks cautiously about his congregation of immigrants, “They love their Blessed Virgin. But they are learning to be Americans.” In “Heist,” the peddlers on New York City streets “come over from Senegal, or up from the Caribbean, or from Lima, San Salvador, Oaxaca, and find a piece of sidewalk and go to work.” And in “Wakefield,” a group of scavengers at a Dumpster are seen, with admiration, as performing “entry-level work into the American dream.” There is even a story titled “Assimilation.” 

According to the dust jacket copy, E.L. Doctorow — the writer in our national family — selected the contents of this compilation himself shortly before his death in 2015. Respect should be paid to his choices, even without an explanatory introduction, and, given the shelf life of most books — alleged to be somewhere between yogurt and cottage cheese — a new edition of work by a master of fiction is always welcome. 

Hilma Wolitzer’s novels include “An Available Man” and “Summer Reading.” She and her husband live in Manhattan and were part-time residents of Springs for many years.

E.L. Doctorow lived part time in Sag Harbor.

“The Nine of Us”

Jean Kennedy Smith

Harper, $29.99

Haven’t we had enough of the Kennedys? I feel satiated with this family’s story. Like many, I know the anecdotes and am familiar with the dynasty’s glorious highs and tragic lows. Goodreads lists 133 books under the header “Best Books About the Kennedys.” I have 10 of them on my bookshelf.

In “The Nine of Us: Growing Up Kennedy,” Jean Kennedy Smith, the penultimate child of Joe and Rose Kennedy’s nine offspring, doesn’t tell us anything we don’t already know. In fact, in many instances, the author tells us far less, especially about the sorrows of death, infidelity, and disability. 

Ms. Smith does, however, uniquely offer the vantage point of a kindhearted sister. She shares her memories from an exclusive perspective inside the history-making set of siblings. On that claim, “The Nine of Us” is a lovely addition to the Kennedys’ literary history.

This memoir opens with a description of the family home in Hyannis Port, Mass. “The white house looked out over the sea. It was a sturdy and practical house, an overgrown Cape Cod cottage with white wooden shingles and black shutters, set back on a lawn that was worn in places from too many football games. A circular drive brought you up to the front steps, which ascended onto a long, wide porch. The beach waited just beyond the grass. A breakwall jutted out to the left to help calm the sometimes unruly seas.”

The author’s portrayal of the well-built white house sited just beyond the “unruly seas” seems a metaphor for the family’s solidarity and protection in a volatile and dangerous world.

As one often hears from children of big families, the older ones were drafted to raise the younger ones. “Mother and Dad taught us to take care of one another without telling us to. They taught us to love one another without forcing us to,” Ms. Smith writes. Joe Kennedy Jr., the eldest, asked that she be his goddaughter. “I never felt alone,” she reflects. 

Ms. Smith could have retitled the book “The Eleven of Us,” since her parents are ever-present in each scene. Every chapter opens with a quote from either Rose or Joe Kennedy. 

“At the helm were Mother and Dad. Mother, a petite woman with an indomitable nature and a sure understanding of what we needed in life. Dad, a towering presence, always with the right answer for our worries and a tender place for our growing spirits. They were our leaders, teachers, and champions. They made everything possible. They made everything clear. Our story is theirs. Falling in line, matching their step, into life we marched.”

Early in the book, Ms. Smith offers brief profiles of each sibling in chronological order. The characterizations are mostly polite and lack the bite that siblings often feel. “Joe seemed to know we were looking up to him. . . . Jack took books everywhere he went. . . . Rosemary had a beautiful Irish face and smile.” 

In these personality sketches, and in many instances throughout the work, Ms. Smith’s diplomatic skills take control. I wished for an author who was a little less of a lady and more a woman. The reader longs for a bit of sour to break the saccharine reminiscences. We want to know what emotions were inevitably roiling below the chipper commentary.

In contrast, the numerous photographs, generously lent from museums, libraries, and private family collections, will surprise and move even the most seasoned of Kennedy watchers. These extraordinary images stirred my heart as they reminded me of a more optimistic and hopeful America. They reveal poignant moments that show the Kennedys were really a flesh-and-blood family.

The narrative strengthens when it goes a bit deeper and touches on more delicate topics. The stories of her immigrant grandparents and the prejudice they endured are authentic and relevant. “They left for the only reason anyone would ever leave Ireland: They were starving, and desperate for work,” Ms. Smith explains, going on to recall the prevalence of “No Irish Need Apply” signs across Boston at the time. 

The author does not include anything of her years as the United States ambassador to Ireland. The reader wonders how the poetry of that appointment must have felt.

Similarly, Ms. Smith barely touches on the challenges faced by her sister Rose, writing little more than that she had trouble keeping up with the others and that her condition was difficult to treat. And yet, later in life, Ms. Smith founded an organization that provides art and education opportunities to people with disabilities. Again, the reader hungers to know how her history informed her adult feelings and choices.

Her words grow lyrical and her spirit seems to soar when writing about the ocean. Life lessons were mixed in with sailing instruction. “In our family, we found common ground on the sea,” she writes. “Saltwater was in our blood, in our genes.” 

Ms. Smith’s urgency is revealed in the epilogue. “It is sometimes difficult to comprehend that I am the only member of our original family still living.” She adds, “My parents and brothers and sisters had the earliest and most profound influence on my life, and I remain so proud of what they accomplished in the years that followed those special, yet too-short days that we all spent together.” 

She concludes the book with a passage from a letter that her father wrote to her brother Bobby, who was at that time a young boy of 14, at the height of World War II: “It is boys of your age who are going to find themselves in a very changed world, and the only way you can hold up your end is to prepare your mind so that you will be able to accept each situation as it comes along. So don’t, I beg of you, waste any time. Do all the things necessary to get yourself in good physical condition — and work hard.”

Ms. Smith punctuates this call to action — which has particular agency just now — with a final “Amen.”

Sally Susman is regular book reviewer for The Star. She lives part time in Sag Harbor.

Jean Kennedy Smith lives in Sagaponack.

“What You Break”

Reed Farrel Coleman

G.P. Putnam’s Sons, $27

On the copyright page of Reed Farrel Coleman’s new novel, “What You Break,” the book’s genre is identified as “Mystery & Detective / Hard-Boiled.” But Gus Murphy, the book’s narrator and central character, is really closer to poached than hard-boiled. He has the right tough-guy pedigree (ex-cop, bouncer), but any resemblance to the steely shamuses created by Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, and Robert B. Parker is only superficial.

True, Gus’s life is filled with violence, past and present. He tells us that his mentor Bill, an ex-priest, saved his life by killing a rogue cop “who needed killing” after Gus exposed him while on the job. Gus’s Russian friend Slava performed similar services on his behalf “at least twice,” and, he notes, “someone did try to shotgun me in my sleep last year. . . . But so many people had tried to kill me last December that I would have needed a scorecard to keep up.” Understandably, Gus never leaves home without a Glock strapped to his ankle.

Underneath his hard shell, though, he’s both obsessed and depressed. The defining event of his life is the death of his son some years earlier, which cost him his marriage, his job, his belief in God, and his mental equilibrium. “I knew all there was to know about emptiness,” he tells us. “John’s death had supplied me with all the hurt and anger a man could ever need.”

A lapsed Catholic, his catalog of disappointments is suffused with religion: “We were alone and here but once. There was no Heavenly Father waiting in judgment, to guide us, to watch over us, to pull this lever or that.” One of his many antagonists is “nipple deep in hell. I knew because I’d been there myself”; the same man is literally, he believes, the Devil. 

At the same time, his angst sometimes takes on an existentialist quality: “What does anything matter after you’re in a box in the ground, when who you are is only who you were and where you’re going is where you are. Forever.” Sam Spade, meet Jean-Paul Sartre. 

In addition to blaming the God in which he no longer believes, Gus takes his anger out on everyone he meets: “You’re sorry. I’m sorry. Everybody I know is sorry and he’s still dead,” he says to a woman he’s known for five minutes. He may not have intended this as a pickup line, but it starts her middle-aged juices flowing. “If I was about twenty years younger, there’s no way you’d be leaving here without bedding me,” she tells him, planting a kiss on his 50-year-old lips.

He ignores the hint, but there are two steamy scenes later on, one with his ex-wife and the other with his actress-girlfriend, who, he tells us, enjoys oral sex and “everything bagels with cream cheese.” He’s a much better lover than he is a fighter; three different guys beat him up during the course of the action, and he misses everybody he shoots at.

He isn’t the only one with a cross to bear or a secret to keep. Bill is “a prisoner of his past,” and Slava, because of his connection to a terrorist event decades before, is on the run from a K.G.B. assassin who himself has four identities: He turns up as Michael Smith, Mr. Gordon, Borovski, and Lagunov, which doesn’t make it easy for the reader to follow the convolutions of the story. The biggest secret of all is the horrific past of Micah Spear, a wealthy man of mystery who hires Gus to find out why his granddaughter was stabbed to death.

But even the most minor characters exhibit a reflexive need for privacy: Felix, who owns the motel where Gus lives, “had his secrets,” and Martina, the night clerk, “didn’t seem anxious for me or anyone else to get to know her.” 

The plot is Byzantine in its complexity, but the fixed point around which everything revolves is Gus’s need for answers. Some of his questions are factual: Why was the girl murdered, what exactly did Slava do in Chechnya 20 years ago, and what did Spear do in Cambodia two decades before that? Members of a gang called the Asesinos keep turning up (one is the granddaughter’s murderer, who is himself murdered in jail, and two more make an attempt on Gus’s life that is foiled by Lagunov), and everyone is somehow connected to the shadowy Gyron factory that secretly manufactures highly illegal products. 

But answering such questions as these is made more difficult by the spiritual colloquy running nonstop inside Gus’s head: “Who could I see about my son’s death? Where were my answers?”

The setting for this tale of multiple mysteries is a prosaic but familiar one: Suffolk County. Gus’s day job is driving a courtesy van for a seedy motel near MacArthur Airport, and the book is in some ways a travelogue of his turf: “Ronkonkoma, Middle Island, and Mastic Beach. Not awful places, just not anybody’s dream.” 

Mr. Coleman knows this area intimately and describes it effectively, but the farther east he goes, the less he gets right. Or is it just Gus who thinks that everyone in the Hamptons spends time at “polo matches or regattas”? Gus disapproves of “some huge, inappropriate houses” on Shelter Island, but at least “there weren’t stockade fences everywhere.” So though he is meant to embody the blue-collar cop-and-fireman ethos of central Suffolk, he’s also endowed with taste and discernment: Taking a sip of red wine, he pronounces it “rich with notes of berries and black pepper.” 

This is probably meant to introduce some variety into his character, and it points up his resemblance to Robert B. Parker’s Spenser, who knows food and wine and 16th-century English literature, and who, like Gus, is involved with a Jewish shrink — in Gus’s case professionally, in Spenser’s, romantically.

Mr. Coleman is, in fact, continuing the work begun by the late Mr. Parker, writing a series of books with almost indecipherable titles like “Robert B. Parker’s The Hangman’s Sonnet (A Jesse Stone Novel) by Reed Farrel Coleman.” Writing as Mr. Parker, Mr. Coleman’s prose is leaner, more ironic, and more convincingly hard-boiled than it is here. Occasionally, he demonstrates this Parkeresque style in “What You Break”; I wish Gus complained more in the ironic, understated vein of “I hated the way people could become important to me without asking my permission” and less in his usual self-dramatizing mode. 

The title, too, is admirably terse. It’s glossed in an unattributed epigraph, which reads, “What you break, you own . . . forever.” That has a nice ring, but what it refers to, in this novel about a man who is not a breaker of things but is himself broken, I have no idea.

Richard Horwich, who lives in East Hampton, taught literature at Brooklyn College and New York University.

Reed Farrel Coleman will read from “What You Break” at Southampton Books on April 8 at 6 p.m.

“Steven Spielberg: 

A Life in Films”

Molly Haskell

Yale University Press, $25

That Steven Spielberg is a certifiable American genius is hardly a matter of debate. A shortlist of the films he has directed includes “E.T.,” “Jaws,” “Saving Private Ryan,” “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” and “Schindler’s List” — though there are 10 more “second tier” films one could name that are nearly as astonishing. There is an argument to be made that he is the greatest filmmaker in American history, surpassing even Orson Welles, John Ford, and Howard Hawks, and he may be the most naturally gifted director in the history of cinema.

You’d think such kudos would be enough for any writer to hang her hat on, but in Molly Haskell’s new minibiography of the director, titled “Steven Spielberg: A Life in Films,” she affords her subject all these superlatives and more. This compact, insightful — but at times overly gushy — biography often goes beyond hyperbole into the realm of hagiography. At one point she literally compares the director to God. The author’s conclusion at this contrast? Advantage Spielberg.

Ms. Haskell’s book does pull off a nifty trick, however, consolidating the life’s work of a prolific genius into a tidy 200 pages. Ms. Haskell breezes through Mr. Spielberg’s youth with a deft touch, hitting all the significant biographical flashpoints without getting bogged down in tiresome minutiae. She tells of the lonely boy with a workaholic father and a restless mother who was having an affair with a neighbor. Young Steven endures numerous phobias and anxieties, along with incidents of moderate to severe anti-Semitism. 

Soon, though, Boy Wonder is given an 8-millimeter camera and discovers an uncanny facility. A subpar student, he nevertheless is able to enlist large contingents of teenagers from the neighborhood into ambitious amateur film productions, and a few of these are even shown at a local theater.

He arrives in Hollywood as a studio gopher, soaking in the atmosphere and chatting up anyone who will talk. (He also develops a long memory: Charlton Heston, who spurned the young Spielberg during this period, will later come knocking to play Indiana Jones. We know how that turned out.) He eventually starts working in television, directing episodes of “Night Gallery.” He falls in the with the “movie brats” of Malibu — Brian De Palma, John Milius, and, most significantly, George Lucas, with whom he would later collaborate. 

Two early directing tours de force, “Duel” and “The Sugarland Express,” were mostly overlooked by audiences but legitimized Mr. Spielberg enough to get him hired for the helm of “Jaws.” From then on, he never looked back.

Ms. Haskell goes through Mr. Spielberg’s canon film by film, acutely assessing the financial and artistic merits of each and introducing biographical interpretations of some of the director’s imagery. Her theory is that Mr. Spielberg’s films are wrought with leitmotifs from his childhood longings and phobias. Most of these assertions are convincing, especially with Ms. Haskell’s take on “Poltergeist,” which particularly seems to resonate with some of the director’s more explicit childhood peccadilloes, such as his aversion to the swaying trees outside his bedroom window, and the sense that the family television was talking directly to him.

Not all this psychoanalyzing hits its mark, however, and there are times when it feels that Ms. Haskell is straining to connect dots that aren’t there. Early on, for example, the author explains how the young Steven felt (as do many Jewish children) that he was missing out on the holiday of Christmas. Later, she tries to connect this to some of his more iconic imagery. 

“Consider the otherworldly savior E.T. The blinding light at the door in ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind.’ What is this sound and light show, this ethereal song, this luminous ship from outer space but a Jewish child’s fantasy of Christmas?” 

That sure seems like a stretch, and the hopped-up language doesn’t make it any truer.

And the author’s suggestion of Mr. Spielberg’s omnipotence is a little much. In her introduction, she recounts her subject’s double duty as director of “Schindler’s List” by day and editor of “Jurassic Park” by night: “The juxtaposition — as if dread and anxiety could thus be halved, one film allaying the stress of the other — seems almost inhuman as well as superhuman.” 

Later the author states that Mr. Spielberg has “touched more lives and boosted more careers than the Almighty. . . .” I was ready to take this as irony until it was echoed in a later chapter on “Jaws.” There she recounts, with off-putting esteem, how two youngsters lost their arms to sharks just before the 2015 re-release of “Jaws.” “Once again Mr. Spielberg had surpassed God in his mastery of mis-en-scene.” Rarrr. Down, girl.

Better is Ms. Haskell in identifying the director’s failure to create a single memorable female character and his inability to invoke romantic or erotic love in any of his films. The female characters, especially in Mr. Spielberg’s earlier work, tend to be tomboys or shrills (think Karen Allen in “Raiders” or Kate Capshaw in “Temple of Doom”), and there is not a romantic comedy in his oeuvre. 

She is also not averse to hinting at a touch of greed in her subject, recounting how after the success of “E.T.,” the director was raking in a million dollars a day but still felt the need to produce movies like “Gremlins” and “The Goonies,” both of which seemed like nothing more than cash cows. (In the next two years, incidentally, audiences will be treated to “Raiders of the Lost Ark 5” and “Jurassic Park I’ve Lost Count.”)

So no, Mr. Spielberg is not God, though his talent is, at times, an awesome thing to behold. I wish Ms. Haskell’s biography, slim as it is, explained exactly how this talent works — or at least tried to. What is it like to work with Mr. Spielberg? What makes him so adept with actors? How does he elicit such great performances? The author doesn’t seem particularly interested in these questions, more content to deify her subject and his abilities as something otherworldly.

For readers who don’t share this curiosity, however, “Steven Spielberg: A Life in Films” will satisfy as a keen, if cursory, overview of one of the most gifted practitioners in the history of American entertainment.

Kurt Wenzel is a novelist and a regular book and theater reviewer for The Star. He lives in Springs.

Steven Spielberg has a house in East Hampton.

“Two Syllable Men”

John McCaffrey

Vine Leaves Press, $14.99

“Two Syllable Men” by John McCaffrey is a short collection of 12 stories in which the men are either a) divorced, b) in the process of getting divorced, c) looking for girlfriends, or d) dissatisfied with the girlfriends they have. And the women assume the roles of ex-wives, ingenues, manic pixie dream girls, or, in one memorable instance, a psychologist who eats barbecue pork sandwiches during therapy sessions. 

The main thrust of the book is the existential search for pure masculinity — whatever that might mean in a time when the gender binary is rapidly decaying. Mr. McCaffrey manages to both subvert and reinforce the Bechdel test, which, to pass, a work of fiction must have at least two named female characters who talk to each other about something other than a man. In “Two Syllable Men,” the male characters exist in the stories only in relation to women. The bulk of their interactions are with women; the majority of their thoughts are about women. On the other hand, the women function as the objects of desire, or to facilitate the life-changing realizations of the men.

In “William,” the first story in the collection, William looks through his girlfriend’s notebook, and what she’s written there causes him to recall a fight when she accused him of cheating with “some young girl.” William called his girlfriend (she is not named) “crazy” and “possessive.” Something else she’s written reminds him of “the night before. They had gone to a movie. And then back to her apartment. They had undressed each other. Played. Danced and wrestled their way to the bedroom. Then, on her low-lying bed, they kissed. And he was flooded with joy; it ripped through him. He had gripped her bare shoulders. Licked at her skin, off-white and flawless. Gripped her tighter and tighter; absorbed her body. Later, as they lay sated, he looked at her and said: ‘I feel so content.’ ”

We do not know what the girlfriend makes of all of this — the dancing, the wrestling. She’s gone out to fetch pizza and, for the reader, lives only in William’s memories. The story is two pages long, but by the end it appears that William has resolved to be kinder in the relationship, more aware. “William walks toward her, searching for the right word.” It is the subtle use of the word “right” that indicates William has changed, and for the better. 

The following stories, “Daniel,” “Graham,” “Kevin,” etc., center on damaged men (“a man without purpose or identity”; “I was hurting from my wife walking out on me”; “after his wife left him, Byron tried to blunt his loneliness with obsession”; “Steven felt inadequate in this raucous world of ribald men”; “after my wife and I separated, I spent most evenings wandering the cavernous aisles of a local Sam’s Club”) pursuing or being pursued by attractive women (“she was tall and stylish in a beige mini with matching heels”; “a great looking blonde in a halter top”; “a tall, lithe woman”; “the sound of her voice ignited an erection”; “she was wearing a black turtleneck that accentuated long, taut breasts”; “she was tall and shapely”). 

All of these stories are variations on the classic boy-meets-girl scenario. Mr. McCaffrey has a knack for plotting, moving briskly between scenes in a way that holds the reader’s interest. Threaded throughout the book are references to “The Sun Also Rises,” most explicitly in “Thomas,” a meta-story wherein Thomas is cast as Cohn in a dramatized version of the novel. What convinces Thomas to take the part is the possibility that he might have a chance to sleep with the actress portraying Brett. “An image of Carolyn’s nipple popped into Thomas’s mind. Things started to seem less complicated. He visualized the two of them together. And then he gave his answer.”

Moments of humor like this add an absurdity to the world of “Two Syllable Men,” in which masculinity is ever at stake and the male characters feel as though they’re on the verge of being outed as phonies. 

What “Two Syllable Men” aims to do, according to the copy on the back of the book, is “explore the male psyche in all its fragmented glory.” It’s an inward, navel-gazing collection of stories. The characters have a bluster, a bravado that’s often countered by a raw vulnerability. If they can just find the right woman, their problems will be solved. 

The overall impression, after reading the book cover to cover, is that women are from Venus and, yep, men are still from Mars. This lends a melancholy feeling to the stories. The characters are separated from one another along gender lines. They want to connect, but they can’t quite figure out how to cross the divide. 

Emily Smith Gilbert is the managing editor of The Southampton Review. She lives in East Hampton.

John McCaffrey is the author of “The Book of Ash,” a science-fiction novel. He lives part time in Wainscott.

For a body of water 110 miles long, 21 miles across at its widest point, and encompassing 1,320 square miles of open water within a coastline of about 600 miles, Long Island Sound somehow tends to be overlooked. But now the giant glacially formed estuarine body is getting its due, thanks to Patrick Lynch’s remarkably comprehensive “A Field Guide to Long Island Sound,” which comes out on March 21 from Yale University Press.

The maps are clear, the photography colorful, the illustrations detailed and accurate — flat-out beautiful, really — and Mr. Lynch, formerly with Yale’s Office of Public Affairs and Communications, is responsible for nearly all of it in what seems an effort of a lifetime, not unlike David Allen Sibley’s “The Sibley Guide to Birds,” which the author heartily recommends as a companion piece. 

Here, though the eye is most readily drawn to Mr. Lynch’s bird illustrations, the work is very much one of natural history, with sections on wind and water patterns, the zooplankton and sea jellies of the Sound’s relatively shallow depths, the surprising vegetation of the beaches and dunes — the eastern prickly pear cactus, for one — the muted splendor of unlikely havens like the marshes of Pelham Bay Park in the Bronx, and on to a chapter on human history, from oystering to whaling. While this last understandably focuses on the Connecticut shore, it’s a welcome reminder that what is outwardly the least interesting of states isn’t quite. 

On Long Island, Mr. Lynch’s considerations of tucked-away natural gems are always informative and at times eye-opening: “The bluff plant community is unique in the Long Island Sound area,” he writes of Wildwood State Park in Wading River, “for in addition to the usual black cherries, sumacs, oaks, and maples, the bluff area contains an unusual number of American beech trees, forming one of the few maritime beech forest communities on the East Coast.”

Get out your hiking boots.

“Brilliant Beacons”

Eric Jay Dolin

Liveright, $29.95

“Brilliant Beacons” by Eric Jay Dolin illustrates the history of American lighthouses that played a role, perhaps not widely known, in the economic success of this country. If you’re looking for a comfortable description of lighthouses, from their construction to modern-day automation, this is the book for you. Mr. Dolin’s style of writing makes you feel as if he’s sitting in the room with you and relating tales of long ago.

While his approach is easy to digest, at the same time he takes you on an adventure across the country to isolated locations where lighthouse keepers kept steady vigils, ensuring safe passage of vessels in surrounding waters.

From the inception of the Lighthouse Service in 1789, and despite the obvious necessity of having them, lighthouses encountered opposition, both from outside the organization and within. Regardless of the persuasiveness of the arguments for a lighthouse — the number of shipwrecks in a certain area, or simply to guide vessels safely into ports — they were sometimes denied for fiscal or other reasons. Mr. Dolin notes that on some occasions Congress delayed construction until additional maritime mishaps convinced lawmakers of the need.

And once a lighthouse was built, there were the challenges of maintaining the beacon in an isolated, desolate location, especially in times of war. Mr. Dolin relays the stories of a number of towers that were damaged or darkened, even destroyed, during the American Revolution, probably the most famous being the Boston Lighthouse, which was blown up by retreating British forces in 1776. During the Civil War, numerous towers in the Southern states were deactivated by the Confederates so as not to aid the Union cause, and some of them were destroyed as well. During World War II, with the threat of enemy submarines, lighthouses were rendered ineffective by dimming or darkening their lights to avoid aiding the enemy.

Over the years the Lighthouse Service was not always supervised very well. Mr. Dolin points out the particularly inept and penny-pinching approach of Stephen Pleasonton as head of the service for 30 years in the early 1800s. What is remarkable, he writes, is the continual failure of Congress, even in the face of inferior tower construction and poor lighting equipment, to make changes to the system, especially the installation of the much-superior Fresnel lenses, which were already in use in many European lighthouses.

In the early 1850s, lighthouse management changed abruptly with the inception of the Lighthouse Board, which removed policies previously in place under Pleasonton and led to the immediate installation of Fresnel lenses in all lighthouses. Mr. Dolin notes the difference in the effectiveness of lighthouses under the new administration, which, in military fashion, repaired, replaced, and improved the quality of lighthouses around the country and standardized construction of keepers’ quarters and overall lighthouse procedures.

He goes on to give examples of some extraordinary lighthouse construction projects that seemed insurmountable given their perilous locations, particularly those on tiny wave-swept islands, such as Minot’s Ledge near Boston Harbor. He vividly describes the collapse of the first skeletal tower and the loss of two keepers in 1851, as well as the challenges of building a more formidable granite tower, completed in 1860 (it still stands).

Then there are more unusual stories, such as in the Farallon Islands off California, where common murre eggs were found to make for a lucrative business, and those involved resisted efforts to have a lighthouse built there.

Mr. Dolin also devotes a chapter to the daily lives of the keepers, some of whom were hailed as heroes after they assisted in the rescue of mariners from shipwrecks, though these keepers would be quick to say they were just performing their duty. He writes of the success of women keepers at a number of stations, many of whom took over when their husbands died. Of note are Abbie Burgess at the Matinicus Rock Lighthouse in Maine and Ida Lewis at the Lime Rock Lighthouse in Newport, R.I., whose acts of bravery have become legendary in the history of lighthouses.

Facing the daily challenges of maintaining the light and property, making log entries, and enduring threatening storms form the fabric of a lifestyle unimaginable today. In one extreme example, a band of Seminole Indians attacked the Cape Florida Lighthouse on Key Biscayne in 1836, which led to an extraordinary fight for survival by the keeper and his assistant. The keeper survived, despite his attempt to blow up the tower when all seemed lost.

The immense destruction of the hurricane of Sept. 21, 1938, which affected eastern Long Island and New England lighthouses, has a chapter all its own. The efforts of keepers to maintain their stations in the face of torrential waves and winds exceeding 120 miles per hour (one gust was measured at 186 miles per hour), in some cases with loss of life, were heroic.

With progress comes change, namely the takeover of the nation’s lighthouses by the Coast Guard in 1939 and their subsequent automation. Unfortunately many lighthouse stations were neglected after that, since with automation personnel were no longer needed, and some beacons were vandalized or started crumbling.

One chapter, “The New Keepers,” is dedicated to private organizations and individuals who have stepped forward to preserve and protect America’s lighthouses. A number of historical societies have opened museums at stations (the Montauk Point Lighthouse is one) to illustrate the history of these noble sentinels. The Fire Island Lighthouse is one where such an organization successfully restored the light itself.

Many of the country’s remaining lighthouses have earned inclusion in the National Register of Historic Places, and 12 have been honored on a higher level as National Historic Landmarks.

As a reader of numerous volumes on lighthouses, I found “Brilliant Beacons” both exciting and enriching, and difficult to put down. The challenges faced in establishment of light stations, the keepers’ lives, and the ultimate rescue of these valuable parts of America’s maritime history are all presented in a manner that will not fail to stir the imagination.

Henry Osmers is the tour director and historian at the Montauk Point Lighthouse. His latest book is “A Legacy of Valor: A History of Lifesaving and Shipwrecks at Montauk, New York.”

“Brilliant Beacons” will be out in paperback on April 25.

“Washington’s Farewell”

John Avlon

Simon & Schuster, $27

“You campaign in poetry. You govern in prose,” Mario Cuomo once famously quipped. But in rare moments of American history, our leaders have provided us with words more akin to Scripture, inspired texts that have outlined the nation’s principles, affirmed its commitments, and articulated its deepest purpose.

George Washington’s Farewell Address, the subject of John Avlon’s absorbing new book, stands as one of those texts, a foundational document of our political system and “the most famous American speech you’ve never read.” In “Washington’s Farewell: The Founding Father’s Warning to Future Generations,” Mr. Avlon, editor in chief of The Daily Beast, hopes to rescue Washington’s last words as president from their recent obscurity so that an American nation now riven by excessive partisanship and existential anxiety might rediscover its wisdom.

Mr. Avlon’s book could hardly have come at a more opportune time. After the ugliness of the 2016 campaign and the unsettling first weeks of the Trump Administration, Washington’s Farewell Address seems the prescription especially needed for the ills that plague our nation. Yet as unremembered as Washington’s last words now are for most Americans, for more than 100 years after its publication in 1796 the Farewell Address stood as the most revered and trusted document in the nation. Schoolchildren memorized passages, ministers incorporated it into their sermons, and presidents regarded it as the touchstone for all their decisions in office. Little did any of these people know that Washington had been working on his address for five years or that others had helped him draft it.

Washington hadn’t wanted to be president, desiring instead a quiet life at his beloved Mount Vernon after his time leading the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War. But he accepted the call of duty to the nation’s highest office with reluctance. He was right to be reluctant. As adored as he had been as general, Washington as president faced vicious critics, a deadlocked Congress, and an unruly cabinet that splintered into warring factions. Bitter divisions between North and South and urban and rural regions grew heated. 

“By the end of his first term, Washington had enough,” Mr. Avlon writes. He secretly asked James Madison to begin work on a valedictory address to mark the end of his presidency. But persuaded that the country would fall into civil war if he didn’t stay in office, Washington accepted a second term as president. The Farewell Address would have to wait.

In his second term, Washington passed the drafting work from Madison to Alexander Hamilton. John Jay, governor of New York, also had a hand in writing the Farewell Address. In the final weeks before publication, Washington furiously finalized the text, paring down Hamilton’s flowery language for his own plain style that, as he described, the “yeomanry of the country” would understand.

The Farewell Address, 6,088 words spread across 54 paragraphs, appeared in the Philadelphia newspaper Claypoole’s American Daily Advertiser on Sept. 19, 1796, and was republished in newspapers across the country in the months following. The address shocked its readers, serving as it did to announce Washington’s retirement from public life.

That announcement provided the address’s most immediate effect, establishing the precedent of the peaceful transfer of power and creating the tradition of a two-term limit to the presidency. (The 22nd Amendment, ratified in 1951, would turn tradition into law after Franklin D. Roosevelt’s four-term presidency.)

But what of the address itself and the guiding principles it set forth? Mr. Avlon outlines the document’s six “pillars of liberty”: national unity, political moderation, fiscal discipline, virtue and religion, education, and foreign policy. Each grew out of the political circumstances of Washington’s presidency, lessons the president had learned and warnings for the future. Mr. Avlon presents the stories behind each pillar, what he calls an “autobiography of ideas.”

Washington’s plea for national unity reflected his concern with the growing factionalism in Philadelphia, evidenced by the emergence of political parties and the nation’s worsening regional divisions. But it also owed to his knowledge of the history of ancient republics that had fallen apart. Like many of his contemporaries, Washington owned a copy of Edward Gibbon’s “The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire” and read it as a dire warning for his own young nation. In his Farewell Address, Washington stressed that the independence and liberty Americans so cherished was dependent on their unity and would be threatened by any acts of division. Tellingly, the two words Washington used most in his address were “citizen” and “Union,” appearing eight and 20 times in the text, respectively. Washington was writing the unifying power of a national identity into the American consciousness through his Farewell Address.

For Washington, the call to national unity also depended on political moderation. While Washington lamented the rise of political parties, what he really feared was the extremism and hyper-partisanship those parties could unleash, thus destabilizing the republic. In advocating national unity based on a shared sense of citizenship, Washington believed the temptation to political extremism could be constrained, tempered further by a devotion to reason over emotion.

On foreign policy, the Farewell Address’s most cited maxim forbidding “entangling alliances” actually never appears in the document. Those were Thomas Jefferson’s words in his first inaugural address. The Farewell Address, instead, advocated neutrality. Mr. Avlon stresses that Washington meant this as a policy of independence rather than isolation, a view shaped by the bitter fights between Federalists and the Democratic-Republicans and their support for England and France, respectively. Washington believed 20 years of neutrality would allow the United States to become powerful enough that its independence would be secure. But he did not intend the U.S. would never act on the global stage.

Still, the isolationist interpretation of Washington’s words prevailed until the 20th century. In the closing section of his book, Mr. Avlon demonstrates how succeeding presidents drew on the Farewell Address to understand and articulate their leadership. Like other influential documents, including the Bible and the Constitution, the Farewell Address was no instruction manual, but instead a statement of principles that were always subject to interpretation. 

Leaders picked and chose from the document, lifting out passages that they believed spoke to — and justified — their approach to the issues of their day. On the brink of civil war, Abraham Lincoln called on the Farewell Address’s appeal to national unity. Woodrow Wilson twisted the logic of Washington’s foreign policy prescription to propose nation-building and the creation of the League of Nations. Dwight D. Eisenhower copied the Farewell Address’s warning to future generations in his own farewell that cautioned an overgrown military-industrial complex threatened democracy.

What might President Trump make of Washington’s Farewell Address? Mr. Avlon’s book provides no thoughts, as it was likely completed before the election in November. Certainly, the history that Mr. Avlon provides shows that nearly all presidents have looked to the Farewell Address for wisdom and guidance. Yet whether or not Mr. Trump ever turns to Washington’s words, Mr. Avlon compellingly argues that the Farewell Address — printed in full in the book’s appendix — is not a document only for presidents but rather for all Americans to read and know, “providing a useful lens for assessing our own decisions as we face the future.”

Neil J. Young is the author of “We Gather Together: The Religious Right and the Problem of Interfaith Politics.” He lives in East Hampton.

John Avlon lives part time in Sag Harbor.

“The Curse of Beauty”

James Bone

Regan Arts, $26.95

In a hundred years will the lives of high-profile models such as Heidi Klum or Cindy Crawford make engaging biographies? 

“The Curse of Beauty: The Scandalous & Tragic Life of Audrey Munson, America’s First Supermodel” by James Bone raises the question: Is beauty inherently interesting? Or is it simply that beauty arouses a kind of insatiable curiosity? It’s what we don’t know about the reality star Kim Kardashian that keeps us all intrigued. Readers of the future would, I suspect, not only marvel at our standards of beauty but also wonder that we hung on every syllable from a woman with so little to say. 

Only the most energetic students of Beaux Arts architecture will know the name Audrey Munson. Yet from the Gilded Age into the early 20th century Munson was as ubiquitous as Cindy Crawford’s mole and as sought after by gossip columnists as any celebrity today. Audrey was the artist’s model of her time, famed as “the most perfectly formed woman in the world.” 

The image of her flawless breasts and profile are forever enshrined in public works found most prolifically throughout New York: sculptures flanking the entrance to the Brooklyn Museum and on top of the Municipal Arts Building, as well as at the Frick Museum, the New York Public Library, and the Pulitzer Fountain outside the Plaza Hotel. If you live in New York, chances are you pass Audrey all the time.

“The Curse of Beauty” promises “glamour, passion, and ultimately tragedy” straight off the jacket. At the start, Mr. Bone unfurls a tantalizing story. When Audrey was a girl of 5, a “bronze-faced” Gypsy predicted that she would be “beloved and famous” — an auspicious fortune, were it not for what followed. The “Dead Sea fruit” would “turn to ashes” in her mouth: Audrey would throw thousands away for a “caprice” and “want for a penny” and fail to marry any of the seven men who fell in love with her. 

That, in a nutshell, sums up the life of Audrey Munson. Whoops, spoiler alert. Whether the Gypsy’s prediction for Munson’s future was clairvoyance or self-fulfilling prophecy is anyone’s guess, says Mr. Bone. Either way, “The Curse of Beauty” makes for tedious reading, though the author rallies every available historical factoid to bring his subject alive. 

Munson cruised through her life — much like the sculptures for which she posed — with an uncanny ability to be entirely unmoved by it. Paranoid, poor, and unemployable at 40, she ended up in an upstate “lunatic asylum,” committed by the embittered stage mother who had banked on her daughter. There, Audrey lived happily as an exiled queen, the role that seems ultimately to have suited her best, dying at the incredible age of 104.

What, what, I asked myself again and again, could have possessed Mr. Bone to choose Munson as his subject? He is a former New York bureau chief of The Times of London and has covered everything from mafia trials, Wall Street frauds, and terrorist attacks to art sales and celebrity weddings. He hails from “generations of artists,” many of whom were active at the same time as those in the book and must certainly have been more interesting. 

As a subject Audrey adds fuel to the old idea that models are dim bulbs — “simple, sweet, homelike,” in the words of a reporter. She was the first woman to pose nude in a film, named, without irony, “Purity.” This did not make her a feminist, as Mr. Bone proposes, but a gal who had a pretty good idea of how her bread was buttered. In the four films Audrey made in total, critics found Munson’s acting ability seriously wanting.

Munson lived in unusually interesting times, working with notable artists such as Isidore Konti, Daniel Chester French, and Adolph Weinman. Mr. Bone so vividly chronicles this context that it’s disappointing when he returns to his subject. To her credit, I suppose, Audrey took her work seriously, eschewing alcohol, late nights, and distracting romantic entanglements. 

She came to see herself, grandiosely, as an artist as well, though the import of Modernism escaped her entirely. After sitting for Francis Picabia, Audrey called the famed Cubist “one of those hangers-on at the fringe of art. . . .” She ended up on the “wrong side of history,” admits Mr. Bone, in damning contemporary artists as “crazy persons capitalizing on their insanities.”

Audrey’s undeniable beauty gave her access to people not only of talent but also of phenomenal wealth. She was fleetingly engaged to Hermann Oelrichs Jr., son of a Newport, R.I., society scion and heir to a silver-mining fortune. That he was gay would hardly have mattered to Audrey; she appears to have been averse to sex, reading between the lines. Nonetheless, her ambitious mother listed her daughter as “Audrey Oelrichs” on a New York State census, claiming she had married Hermann in a secret wedding. As for that Gypsy curse: Of the many men who came knocking —       none stuck. 

The great scandal of “The Curse of Beauty” comes midway. “What took place on the brick walkway outside the Wilkinses’ cottage . . . at exactly ‘9:28 1/2 pm’ on Thursday, February 27, 1919, changed Audrey’s life forever,” begins Mr. Bone, portentously. Dr. Harry Wilkins — Audrey’s landlord and doctor — bludgeoned his wife to death with a club, claiming an intruder had surprised them outside their house. A photo of Audrey found among his possessions fueled very public rumors of an affair; as the murder trial raged, Audrey was nowhere to be found. In fact, the evidence was disappointingly slim that Audrey’s acquaintance with Dr. Wilkins was much more than nodding. 

That Audrey was beautiful, clueless, and misused is an age-old story, calculated to arouse a reader’s sympathy. But as Audrey fell into obscurity, she became a wacky caricature. She nursed a host of conspiracy theories — offensively anti-Semitic — that erupted into letters to the State Department demanding its help in retrieving profits due on her films. Virtually destitute, Audrey finally parlayed what little fame she had left into a “Bachelorette”-like contest to find a husband of “pure race.” She chose a phantom; his name was an alias leading to no one at all.

The story of Audrey Munson makes a great footnote, a diverting article, and a Wikipedia entry sure to delight someone browsing the internet. With all due respect to Mr. Bone’s formidable research and reporting skills, “The Curse of Beauty” is more information than most readers will ever want or need. Remember Audrey Munson simply as the muse who launched a host of sculptures, representing what is best and noblest in public creativity.

Ellen T. White, former managing editor at the New York Public Library, is the author of “Simply Irresistible,” a book about history’s great romantic women. She lives in Springs.

James Bone lives on Shelter Island. “The Curse of Beauty” will be out in paperback on April 18.

“Rosset”

Barney Rosset

OR Books, $28

If one were asked to name the cultural heroes of the last 100 years, chances are Barney Rosset would not be among the first to roll off the tongue. In point of fact, however, this American publisher and sometime movie producer fought nearly all of the major First Amendment battles of the second half of the 20th century. It may be that no single person has done more to knock down the doors of censorship in art and literature in America than Barney Rosset. 

There’s no doubting Mr. Rosset’s taste in literature. Even the most modest bookcase will have at least a volume or two from Mr. Rosset’s highly influential publishing house, Grove Press, which he acquired in 1951. Judging from his memoir, however — “Rosset: My Life in Publishing and How I Fought Censorship” — his literary taste did not necessarily translate to literary talent. This memoir is mostly written in a declarative, perfunctory style that lacks the famous vim and vigor of its author. The flesh-and-blood Barney Rosset was by turns irascible, devilish, and highly mercurial, and it is head-scratching that this memoir only occasionally manifests that personality. 

Nevertheless, the story recounted here is a colorful and important one. Mr. Rosset, who grew up in Chicago in between world wars, states that he was never as happy again as he was at the age of 17, when he was the class president, star in both football and track, and (already) a literary provocateur, drawing up a petition demanding the release of his hero, John Dillinger. During World War II he bluffed his way into the Army photographic unit, stationed in China. Following the war, he sank $250,000 of his family’s money into his first film, “Strange Victory,” a documentary that chronicled racial bias in the treatment of black war veterans. The film was a box-office disaster but cemented Mr. Rosset’s penchant for marrying financial risk with provocative subject matter. 

There was the requisite stint in Paris, where Mr. Rosset met Joan Mitchell, the Abstract Expressionist painter, who became his first wife (there were five). She led him back to Greenwich Village, where he fell in with the Beats and the artists at the Cedar Tavern. It was during this time that Mr. Rosset bought the nearly defunct Grove Press (for $3,000!) and when things in his professional life started to get interesting. At Grove, Mr. Rosset published no less than Samuel Beckett, Jean Genet, Henry Miller, Harold Pinter, Eugene Ionesco, and Che Guevara, among others. 

The first major censorship battle was over D.H. Lawrence’s “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” in 1957. It was deemed obscene and prompted the U.S. Postal Service to seize copies (the ruling was eventually overturned). Further battles were waged over Henry Miller’s “Tropic of Cancer,” William Burroughs’s “Naked Lunch,” and the film “I Am Curious (Yellow),” for which Mr. Rosset was the distributor. Ultimately, all of these cases broke Mr. Rosset’s way, and some with a huge payoff: “Tropic of Cancer,” for example, sold well over a million copies for Grove and made Mr. Rosset, and his publishing company, rich. 

But fortune would not last for Mr. Rosset, whose finances rose and fell from year to year. It is interesting to note that at one point he owned more than 100 acres of prime land in East Hampton, only to sell off parcel after parcel to pay for each impending court battle. It is not an exaggeration to assert that the war over censorship in America was literally paid for with East Hampton real estate.

There are, of course, some tasty anecdotes in the book, including Mr. Rosset pulling a raging actor off Norman Mailer, and a number of very tender recollections of his friendship with Samuel Beckett, which lasted decades. In a rare moment of close observation in “Rosset,” the author remembers a breakfast in Paris with Beckett at which diners placed their orders by submitting cards with pictures of food on them. 

“In a funny way, it was pure Beckett . . . you could choose a meal in total silence. In the same vein, Beckett had made increasing use of the stage directions ‘pause’ and ‘silence’ in his work, and had pared down his vocabulary with fewer and fewer words.”

Mostly, though, this is a memoir content to enumerate the varied accomplishments of its author in a flat, monochrome voice that is only occasionally roused. And there is a mother lode of publishing minutiae in “Rosset” that most readers will find esoteric: advances, units sold, book fairs, etc. 

For all of its faults, however, this book does have a cumulative effect, leaving one in a state of admiration as you follow Mr. Rosset decade after decade in his dogged pursuit of artistic freedom. The book is at its best with its chapters on “Tropic of Cancer,” a novel Mr. Rosset loved intensely. He originally encountered it as a student at Swarthmore in 1940, where he read a smuggled copy. Though publishing it ultimately made him rich, the memoir leaves no doubt of the sincerity in his fight to see it legally published in America. 

“. . . there arose from it an almost mystical feeling, a sense of the numinous, which grew stronger as the story went along. . . . Both Miller and Lawrence developed and communicated an intense, freeing belief that we should live the kind of life we desire — and they inspired each of us to believe and do the same.” 

As this imperfect memoir reminds us, much the same could be said of Barney Rosset (who died in 2012). In a different kind of country, he might have won the Congressional Medal of Freedom. As it is, we have simply his legacy, one where the meaning of the word “obscene” — indeed the cultural landscape of America itself — was changed forever. 

Kurt Wenzel’s novels include “Lit Life” and “Gotham Tragic.” He lives in Springs.