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Great writing, even when an author sets a story in early 20th century Maine or during ancient uprisings, often sheds light on our own era. From a novel starring a sentient gale-force wind, on to a memoir from a leading African American writer, this month’s titles provide illumination as we lose daylight.

FICTION

Helm: A Novel
By Sarah Hall
Mariner Books: 368 pages, $30
(Nov. 4)

U.K. inhabitants of Hall’s native Cumbria region have grappled for centuries with a wind known as “The Helm.” Different eras have deemed it a measure of divine anger or human sin, and more recently, as one of earth’s vital signs. Helm’s narration alternates with chapters from perspectives including an astrologer, an astronomer, a Crusader, an herbalist and a climatologist, each adding to the strength of the immortal force.

Palaver: A Novel
By Bryan Washington
Farrar, Straus & Giroux: 336 pages, $28
(Nov. 4)

As in his first two novels “Memorial” and “Family Meal,” Houston-based Washington weaves scenes of Americans at home and in Japan with exquisite attention both to queer culture and to emotions. “The mother” and “the son” are never named; her Jamaican origins affect his upbringing, as well as his identity. When she makes an unannounced visit to see him in Japan, the title’s gentle irony becomes apparent.

Queen Esther: A Novel
By John Irving
Simon & Schuster: 432 pages, $30
(Nov. 4)

Readers will recall Dr. Wilbur Larch from “The Cider House Rules.” Here he is the 1919 go-between for Esther Nacht, a 14-year-old Jewish refugee whom he places with the Winslow family as an au pair. Like so many women through the ages, that role results in a different kind of labor for her, one that turns this most Irving-esque (wrestling! sex!) book into writer Jimmy Winslow’s origin story.

The Silver Book: A Novel
By Olivia Laing
Farrar, Straus & Giroux: 256 pages, $27
(Nov. 11)

The 1975 murder of Italian subversive film director Pier Paolo Pasolini forms the tortured heart of Laing’s first historical novel. In 1974 protagonist Nicholas Wade leaves England and lands in Venice, where he meets Danilo Donati, costume designer for Pasolini as well as Fellini and others. Their relationship reflects those auteurs’ themes, especially those of fascism’s rebirth in Pasolini’s “Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom.”

The White Hot: A Novel
By Quiara Alegría Hudes
One World: 176 pages, $26
(Nov. 11)

Noted playwright Hudes pens a stunning debut novel that rends conventional notions of motherhood. Years after disappearing from her child’s life, April Soto writes her daughter Noelle a letter to read on her 18th birthday. Less apology than explanation, and less explanation than soul-searching screed, this novel has a huge voice, a woman’s attempt to create meaning from the depths of family trauma.

NONFICTION

Book of Lives: A Memoir of Sorts
By Margaret Atwood
Doubleday: 624 pages, $35
(Nov. 4)

Only Margaret Atwood could write a debut memoir at age 85 and make it significantly different from her previous work while at the same time infusing it with her droll wit and many passions, literary, environmental and familial. While she has always combined public and private in her acclaimed and groundbreaking novels, essays, and poetry, this volume beautifully fuses Atwood the person, and Atwood the writer.

Front Street: Resistance and Rebirth in the Tent Cities of Techlandia
By Brian Barth
Astra House: 304 pages, $29
(Nov. 11)

Barth, a freelance journalist, spent time in three different Bay Area encampments of unhoused people, including Oakland’s Wood Street Commons, and, as Gov. Gavin Newsom moves forward on a new task force targeting these areas for removal, he argues that solutions to homelessness should come from the ground up, with the involvement of those most affected.

Without Consent: A Landmark Trial and the Decades-Long Struggle to Make Spousal Rape a Crime
By Sarah Weinman
Ecco: 320 pages, $32
(Nov. 11)

Until the 1970s in most states, a married woman could not legally refuse to have sex with her husband. The 1978 Oregon trial of John Rideout for marital rape of his wife Greta — despite his then-acquittal — raised awareness of this legislation and led to Rideout’s conviction for rape and sodomy nearly four decades later in a case involving two other partners. Weinman (“The Real Lolita”) writes with energy about a case with present-day ramifications.

Revolutions: A New History
By Donald Sassoon
Verso: 432 pages, $40
(Nov. 18)

You say you want a revolution — and historian Sassoon says: Consider your predecessors. Although we focus on hot-button moments, the long tale of these uprisings can lead to long-term instability and injustice (e.g., the young United States choosing to persist with enslavement). What is the real price of transformation? Is it worth considering when people unite against tyranny and oppression?

Languages of Home: Essays on Writing, Hoop, and American Lives 1975–2025
By John Edgar Wideman
Scribner: 400 pages, $29
(Nov. 18)

Wideman’s 1985 essay “The Language of Home” was about the power of words to capture our foundations, so it’s fitting that his new collection covering 50 years of his powerful prose mimics that essay’s title. The new title’s plural refers to the author’s constant themes, which aren’t surprising. What does surprise is his prescience about still-relevant concerns, from a disappearing middle class to police brutality.

Last year the prolific and gifted Zadie Smith stumbled into controversy with the publication of “Shibboleth” in the New Yorker. She purportedly approached the white-hot Gaza demonstrations with the nuance and complexity they deserved and yet derided pro-Palestinian students at Columbia University as “cynical and unworthy,” stirring up a hornets’ nest among her young fans, who expressed their anger on various internet platforms. The controversy gained traction because of Smith’s record of championing the marginalized, citing theorists like Frantz Fanon while targeting empires and the omnipresent patriarchy. That she singled out one group of activists, many Jewish, at the very moment Arab toddlers were being blown apart by U.S.-funded bombs raised doubts about her touted values. Her conclusion was startling, her tone defiant: “Put me wherever you want: misguided socialist, toothless humanist, naïve novelist, useful idiot, apologist, denier, ally, contrarian, collaborator, traitor, inexcusable coward.” The lady doth protest too much?

“Shibboleth” appears in “Dead and Alive,” Smith’s collection of previously published essays, in which she assumes most if not all those roles she attributes to herself. Fanon is here as well, amid an array of artists and authors such as Joan Didion, Toni Morrison, and Philip Roth. Smith is arguing for the necessity of vigorous criticism and often makes her case. The book’s finest pieces wrangle, in elegant prose, with humanity’s contradictions; the weaker ones indulge in name-dropping, footnotes and op-ed invective.

Zadie Smith

(Ben Bailey-Smith)

“The Muse at Her Easel,” in the opening section, probes the relationship between English painter Lucian Freud and his model, Celia Paul, also a painter, via a review of her memoir. (Paul is the mother of one of 12 children he fathered outside of marriage.) Smith’s sly trick here is a bit of Freud-play: Lucian seen through the prism of his grandfather Sigmund, the family romance on steroids. Celia revolves around the artist here much as she did when he was alive, vulnerable and reflective, a moon to his sun. It’s both a restrained and overwrought essay, a cryptic tale of sexual politics, like her fellow Brit Rachel Cusk’s novel, “Second Place,” but one that urges us to think hard about abuses in the service of “museography.”

Smith brings an empathic eye to other artists, from the allegorical Toyin Ojih Odutola to the subversive Kara Walker. And she shines a bright light on numerous writers who have inspired her, particularly in remembrances of Didion (whose influence we sense throughout “Dead and Alive”) and the great Hilary Mantel. Her pieces on two books, “Black England” and “Black Manhattan,” excavate hidden histories of Black resistance and the painful compromises brokered to move forward. Her tone in “Fascinated to Presume: In Defense of Fiction” is elegiac, as though smartphones have killed off the craft; yet it’s also a manifesto of sorts, and a declaration of her own aesthetics. “Belief in a novel is, for me, a by-product of a certain kind of sentence,” Smith observes. “Familiarity, kinship, and compassion will play their part, but if the sentences don’t speak to me, nothing else will.” Amen, sister.

Her forays into social commentary are more problematic. She’s strong on the weird population kink known as Gen X, squeezed between the larger boomers and millennials, and the switchback road we traveled to marriage and parenthood: “We all still dressed like teenagers, though, and in the minds of the popular culture were ‘slackers,’ suffering from some form of delayed development, possibly the sad consequences of missing such key adulting experiences as a good war or a stock market crash,” Smith asserts. “We felt history belonged to other people: that we lived in the time of no time.” She’s persuasive when she remains within her comfort zone, opining on race, gender and, occasionally, class. Not so much when she ventures into technology. In “Some Notes on Mediated Time,” she broods at length on the destabilizing effects of the internet, social media and the algorithm silos that shape our present. It’s tough to parse irony from self-congratulation. “I have to say how immensely grateful I am that the work I have been so fortunate to do these last twenty years — writing books — has also gifted me the opportunity, the privilege, of devoting the time of my one human life to an algorithm. To keep almost all of it, selfishly, outrageously, for myself, my friends, my colleagues, my family,” Smith writes. “There are memes I will never know. Whole Twitter meltdowns I never witnessed. Hashtags I will forever remain ignorant about.” Which raises the question: Why lament a social paradigm shift if you haven’t bothered with it in the first place? Something isn’t right. Elsewhere in the essay she claims that social media is “excellent for building brands and businesses and attracting customers.” Could the same be said of a disingenuous essayist?

She comes across as preaching to her peers rather than seeking converts, a whiff of Oxbridge elitism. Hence references to Derrida, Dickinson, Knausgaard, Borges, shout-outs to Booker laureates “Salman” (Rushdie) and “Ian” (McEwan). This level of self-regard in a writer and thinker as justifiably exalted as Smith may explain why our nation is turning on reading: aristocracies breed resentment among the proles. Then Smith steps into the muck of global conflicts. The moral bothsidesism found in “Shibboleth” splits the baby; she does herself no favors with Solomonic pronouncements and Pontius Pilate-like self-exoneration. (Elsewhere she indicts Trump and Netanyahu while neglecting the money and media that empower them.)

“Dead and Alive” does what it was designed to do: It gathers the author’s criticism, literary obituaries, a university address and an interview with a Spanish journal between two covers. The execution falters. Smith’s provocations are often stunning; her prose is thrillingly strident; but her fiction better captures the messiness of public and private selves at war with each other.

Cain is a book critic and the author of a memoir, “This Boy’s Faith: Notes From a Southern Baptist Upbringing.” He lives in Brooklyn, N.Y.

When “Kiss of the Spider Woman” premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in January, it was in the shadow of President Trump’s return to office.

Just days earlier, Trump had begun his term with a wave of executive orders to expand the country’s immigration detention infrastructure, fast-track deportations, remove protections preventing Immigrations and Customs Enforcement (ICE) officials from targeting schools and churches, and a declaration that the U.S. government would recognize only two sexes.

Referencing these developments ahead of the screening in Park City, Utah, writer-director Bill Condon told the audience: “That’s a sentiment I think you’ll see the movie has a different point of view on.”

Released in theaters Oct. 10, “Kiss of the Spider Woman” is set in the final year of Argentina’s Dirty War, the violent military dictatorship that spanned from 1976-1983. The story begins in the confines of a Buenos Aires prison, where newfound cellmates Valentin Arregui Paz (Diego Luna) and Luis Molina (Tonatiuh) find they have little in common. Arregui is a principled revolutionary dedicated to his cause, while Molina is a gay, flamboyant window dresser who’s been arrested for public indecency.

Undeterred by their differences, Molina punctuates the bleak existence of their imprisonment — one marked by torture and deprivation — by recounting the plot of “The Kiss of the Spider Woman,” a fictional Golden Age musical starring his favorite actress, Ingrid Luna (Jennifer Lopez), casting himself and Arregui as her co-stars. Transported from their dreary cell to the bright, indulgent universe of the musical, their main conflicts become a quest for love and honor, rather than a fight for their basic human rights.

When Argentinian author Manuel Puig began writing the celebrated novel, “Kiss of the Spider Woman,” in 1974, it was just a year into his self-imposed exile to Mexico as his native Argentina lurched toward authoritarianism. By the time the book was released in 1976, a military junta had seized control of the government. The next seven years were marked by the forced disappearance of an estimated 20,000-30,000 people, many of whom were kidnapped and taken to clandestine detention camps to be tortured and killed. Among those targeted were artists, journalists, student activists, members of the LGBTQ+ community and anyone deemed “subversive” by the regime.

Initially banned in Argentina, Puig’s novel has been adapted and reimagined multiple times, including as an Oscar-winning film in 1985 and a Tony Award-winning musical in 1993. With each iteration, the central elements have remained unchanged. And yet, as the 2025 adaptation arrived in theaters this month, this queer, Latino-led story of two prisoners fighting the claustrophobia of life under fascism feels at once like a minor miracle, and a startling wake-up call.

Tonatiuh, left, and Diego Luna in the movie “Kiss of the Spider Woman.”

(Sundance Institute)

In the months since the film’s Sundance premiere, the parallels between the fraught political climate of 1970s Argentina and that of our present have only become more pronounced.

Under Trump, an endless stream of escalating violence from masked federal agents has become our new normal. ICE officers have been filmed apprehending people outside of immigration court; firing pepper balls, rubber bullets and tear gas at journalists, protesters and clergymen; and, earlier this month, they descended from Black Hawk helicopters, using flash-bang grenades to clear a Chicago apartment building in a militarized raid that had men, women and children zip-tied and removed from their homes. As the country’s immigrant detention population reaches record highs, widespread reports of abuse, neglect and sexual harassment, particularly against LGBTQ+ detainees, have emerged from facilities across the U.S.

Amidst these headlines are people just like Molina and Arregui — activists, artists and human beings — finding their own ways to survive and resist an increasingly paranoid and repressive government. And while Arregui’s instinct is to remain unwavering in his cause, Molina’s is to retreat into the glamorous, over-the-top world of the “Spider Woman.”

In dazzling musical numbers expertly performed by Lopez, who delivers each song and dance with all the magnetism of a true Old Hollywood icon, both the prisoners and the audience can’t help but be drawn further and further into her Technicolor web.

Jennifer Lopez and Tonatiuh in the movie “Kiss of the Spider Woman.”

(Roadside Attractions)

It might be easy to write these moments off as nothing more than a superficial distraction, as Arregui does early on, and characterize musicals as shallow and cliche. At first, Molina is happy to admit that’s why he loves them, but the truth is more complicated.

During Argentina’s dictatorship, discrimination and attacks by paramilitary groups against LGBTQ+ people became more and more frequent. Molina accepts the role society has cast him in, allowing himself to be the “monster,” the “deviant” or the “sissy” that people want him to be, while retreating mentally into the world of classic films and pop culture. For him, their beauty is a salve — an opportunity to abandon reality and cast himself in a role that doesn’t actually exist for him.

Though he never explicitly claims an identity, it’s made clear that he doesn’t just love “La Luna” — he wants to be her. And in their first feature lead role, the queer, L.A.-born actor Tonatiuh embodies all of Molina’s contradictions — his bluster, his pain, his radiance — to heart-wrenching effect.

As Molina and Arregui grow closer, the boundaries between reality and fantasy begin to melt, and their formerly rigid perceptions collapse along with them. Arregui takes on some of Molina’s idealism, and the musical he once saw as a tired cliche becomes something invaluable: a sliver of joy that can’t be taken from him. A cynic convinced of the world’s brokenness, he realizes that revolutions need hope too.

In the film’s final act, while the world around Molina hasn’t changed, he has. Still trapped within the confines of a society that is doing its best to crush him, he adopts Arregui’s integrity and realizes that he has a choice: “I learned about dignity in that most undignified place,” he says in the film. “I had always believed nothing could ever change for me, and I felt sorry for myself. But I can’t live like that now.”

Like the film within the film, “Kiss of the Spider Woman” isn’t an escape. It’s a lifeline — and a reminder that, even in the darkest of times, art has the power to transport us, sustain us and embolden us to be brave.