BLAND FANATICS: LIBERALS, RACE, AND EMPIRE by Pankaj Mishra (Farrar, Straus and Giroux). A collection of essays by one of those “public intellectuals” the column admires; a new one, here. For reading while our untidy electoral process sorts itself out and we might return to our normal condition of general agreement on at least the basic principles of the western democratic socio-economic philosophies: you know, small-l liberalism, freedom from hereditary rulers or a state religion; freedom of expression, tolerance for differences; not anti-Trump (or pro-Biden, either), well above that, where the air is clearer and not just refreshing, stimulating. He thinks we in the European-American West have become, in our relations with the rest of the world (at least), not exactly wrong, but smug, certain of not just our rightness but our righteousness. He is, and I confess this is part of his appeal for me, laceratingly witty about people he disapproves of, but there is an inspiring variety of such people, here, found wherever pomposity grows, not all of one ideology. Altogether, he's such a good noticer of things, and writer, that he's more enlarging, and more fun to disagree with occasionally, than purely results-oriented polemicists are to agree with consistently.

THE LAW OF INNOCENCE by Michael Connelly (Little, Brown). The sixth of his Lincoln Lawyer series by one of the squad of already immortal crime and suspense writers active in our time. I swear, if he had never written a Harry Bosch novel, this newer, parallel (also Los Angeles-set) series would have made him immortal, anyway. Mickey Haller remains a lawyer in this one, of course, but also a defendant—accused, convincingly though of course we don't believe it, of murder.

A SOLITUDE OF WOLVERINES by Alice Henderson (Morrow). Don't be misled by that rather poetic title; this is a mystery and a thriller, not a nature study. Its delight in evoking its freezing-cold, mountain wilderness setting provides compelling atmosphere, but it isn't only scenery that's made shockingly real, and in fact uncomfortable. A seemingly extravagant blurb gets the central character just right, too: “half Jane Goodall, half Rambo.” And it's promised as the beginning of a series.

HOT TO TROT: AN AGATHA RAISIN MYSTERY by M. C. Beaton with R. W. Green (Minotaur). Another long-time column favorite—this series is actually older than the column; when our first review appeared, the series was more than 20 numbers along. A delightful new one, intricate, entertaining, and satisfying as always. If you've skipped some, get hold of this one, for sure. The lusty lady detective is immortal; but her mighty creator (of the great Hamish Macbeth Scotland-set mysteries, as well, of course) was, sadly, not. Or was, but only literarily: she died just a few months ago.