Once, the great American novelists were synonymous with particular places in this large, unruly, complicated country, like landmarks on a map. Philip Roth was forever yoked to Newark, New Jersey, John Updike to rural Pennsylvania, Joan Didion was tied up with the Barry Goldwater-supporting pockets of California, and so on. These writers not only hailed from these places, they also made these places the subject of their work. In the process, they helped the Manhattan-centric literary world become a little less insular. They embodied the notion that great writers could be birthed in any town, city, burg, or remote outpost.

These days, the major novelists don’t seem especially interested in writing about where they are from. In so much fiction today, regionalism has been replaced by postmodernist tricks, needless irony, and fussy writing. The idea that a writer could emerge from the provinces to tell us plainly but humanely about his kith and kin seems quaint, almost antediluvian.