Travelers, truants and transplants—Paul Theroux's favorite people since the start of his writing career—are the central figures in "World's End," his new collection of stories….

Impressive as much of "World's End" is …, the book's preoccupation with uprootedness does become wearing before the end. In Mr. Theroux's work in longer forms, no single preoccupation ever tyrannizes. A travel jotting in a novel stands adjacent to and competes with, say, a cameo appearance by a celebrity living or dead (Graham Greene, D. H. Lawrence, Che Guevara, whom you will)—or with a penetrating passage of art criticism, or a witty parody, or a splendid joke about science that one hasn't heard before, or a subtle probe of an artist's mind on the verge of discovering a subject. And all the while, shuttling from interest to interest, entertainment to entertainment, we're immersed (I'm describing "Picture Palace," actually) in a family chronicle extending over generations and having a haunting incestuous relationship at its core. The impression is of brave abundance, a lively mind and tonic improvisatory energy.

But when, as in the short story, space doesn't permit this kind of exuberance, some other kind is needed. Thematic variety is the obvious possibility; yet, to repeat, there's not much of that in "World's End."