Craig Nova

Only the woods are true and serious, Craig Nova seems to be saying: the clarity of a shaded pool, the muscular grace of a brook trout, the uncurling of a well-cast line, the stony obduracy of New England farmland. In a sense, "The Congressman's Daughter," like its predecessor, "The Good Son," is an attempt to reintroduce awe into our civilized and trivialized landscape.

Russell BOYD, a south Vermont state trooper with a heightened sense of life's potential for disaster, and Frank Kohler, a computer repairman with dreadful memories and a bleak-seeming future, are the apposite protagonists in Craig Nova's riveting, finely rendered, insight-provoking novel: Two somewhat similar yet crucially different cruisers along life's two-lane blacktop are unwittingly bound for a head-on collision. Or almost unwittingly.

This could be among the last places in America where a shopper can find a fine selection of dresses made from Indian bedspreads. The general store sells sun-dried tomato pesto. At the food co-op, humans pay handsomely for designer water. Dogs get it for free, in nice big buckets.

Whether they mean to be or not, novels set in Los Angeles are expected to be about Los Angeles: to pass judgment on the city's peculiarities, render the lay of the land, even to confirm its existence for skeptical outsiders who tend to view L.A. as a desert mirage. Its symbiosis with Hollywood gives L.A. a chimerical quality, as if it had been invented by screenwriters. The real city has always gotten tangled in literary hyperbole.

Russell BOYD, a south Vermont state trooper with a heightened sense of life's potential for disaster, and Frank Kohler, a computer repairman with dreadful memories and a bleak-seeming future, are the apposite protagonists in Craig Nova's riveting, finely rendered, insight-provoking novel: Two somewhat similar yet crucially different cruisers along life's two-lane blacktop are unwittingly bound for a head-on collision. Or almost unwittingly.

Marie Boule, a pivotal character in Craig Nova's "Tornado Alley," describes herself early on in the novel as a "small-town girl who is almost dangerous with frustration." An only child, Marie lives with her parents in Baxter, Penn., a spiritually and culturally barren resort area for fishing and hunting. Together they run "Al Boule's Hilltop Store," specializing in "Guns, Food, Worms and Night Crawlers."

Whether they mean to be or not, novels set in Los Angeles are expected to be about Los Angeles: to pass judgment on the city's peculiarities, render the lay of the land, even to confirm its existence for skeptical outsiders who tend to view L.A. as a desert mirage. Its symbiosis with Hollywood gives L.A. a chimerical quality, as if it had been invented by screenwriters. The real city has always gotten tangled in literary hyperbole.

NIGHT TRAIN by Todd Walton (Mercury House: $17.95; 325 pp.). In his fourth novel, Todd Walton, author of the critically praised "Inside Moves" and "Louie & Women," delivers an unusual and often gripping tale that begins like a hard-boiled crime story and becomes something resembling science fiction.

In his fourth novel, Todd Walton, author of the critically praised "Inside Moves" and "Louie & Women," delivers an unusual and often gripping tale that begins like a hard-boiled crime story and becomes something resembling science fiction. Walton evokes a paranoid romanticism reminiscent of Craig Nova, Don DeLillo or Thomas Pynchon as he tracks the fate of Lily and Charlie, two down-and-out musicians on the run from an army of "very well-connected" thugs out not just for blood but for spirit.

This could be among the last places in America where a shopper can find a fine selection of dresses made from Indian bedspreads. The general store sells sun-dried tomato pesto. At the food co-op, humans pay handsomely for designer water. Dogs get it for free, in nice big buckets.

Marie Boule, a pivotal character in Craig Nova's "Tornado Alley," describes herself early on in the novel as a "small-town girl who is almost dangerous with frustration." An only child, Marie lives with her parents in Baxter, Penn., a spiritually and culturally barren resort area for fishing and hunting. Together they run "Al Boule's Hilltop Store," specializing in "Guns, Food, Worms and Night Crawlers."

Only the woods are true and serious, Craig Nova seems to be saying: the clarity of a shaded pool, the muscular grace of a brook trout, the uncurling of a well-cast line, the stony obduracy of New England farmland. In a sense, "The Congressman's Daughter," like its predecessor, "The Good Son," is an attempt to reintroduce awe into our civilized and trivialized landscape.

Ann Beattie writes in her introduction that she picked these stories "because they surprised me." Unfortunately, few surprises are to be found here, with the exception of Susan Sontag's deft "The Way We Live Now," in which an AIDS patient's persona is virtually obliterated by his well-meaning friends. Using a dizzying swirl of names to create a gossip column effect, Sontag circles her victim like a hawk and creates unexpected pathos.

Four years ago, British writer Nicholas Evans was so squeezed financially that he planned to ask his banker for greater overdraft privileges. But before he could plead his case, he learned that his half-finished novel was being bought for the screen by Robert Redford and Hollywood Pictures for $3 million. In addition, from the Frankfurt Book Fair came word that Dell Publishing was acquiring North American rights for $3.15 million.