If what hooked you was Wolf stalking 1939 London in a world skewed by a different turn of history—and the way his shabby PI case brushes against Oswald Mosley’s blackshirts—then you’ll love how The Yiddish Policemen’s Union plants washed‑up detective Meyer Landsman in a Jewish Sitka that exists because Israel never took root. Like Wolf’s dive bars and shabby offices, Landsman’s flophouse and cold streets drip with atmosphere, and the murder he chases ripples into a community’s fate. It’s that same mix of alt‑timeline melancholy, Jewish memory, and hardboiled investigation that powered Wolf’s case and Shomer’s dream.

You followed Wolf—Adolf Hitler recast as a grubby London PI—with horrified fascination, the book daring you to sit inside a monster’s skin while Shomer dreams him into a tawdry ruin. Time’s Arrow pulls a similar, startling trick: we ride backward through the life of a Nazi doctor, witnessing his crimes in reverse. As A Man Lies Dreaming weaponizes proximity to Wolf for moral shock and dark irony, Amis’s reverse narrative forces you to confront atrocity from an angle that’s as disturbing as it is revelatory.

If the split between Wolf’s gritty case and Shomer’s Auschwitz chapters thrilled you—the way the detective yarn keeps slipping to reveal the hand that’s dreaming it—then City of Glass is your next labyrinth. A writer receives a misdial meant for a detective, takes the case, and finds the investigation curdling into a mirror maze of identities and authorship. Like Shomer scripting Wolf’s every stumble, Auster keeps exposing who’s telling what, turning the red notebook into a trapdoor under the mystery.

One of the most electric jolts in A Man Lies Dreaming is realizing Shomer’s campbound imagination is spawning Wolf’s London—fiction shaping a world. In The Man in the High Castle, characters living under Axis rule pass around a forbidden novel that imagines a different outcome to the war, and it starts to warp their reality. As Shomer’s pulp dream toys with fate and power, Dick’s nested text and I Ching consultations blur the border between story and world in equally uncanny ways.

If you grinned (and winced) at the book’s gallows jokes—Wolf’s humiliations, the send‑ups of British fascists, the pulp patter curdled by the camps—Vonnegut’s Mother Night hits that same nerve. Written as the confession of a Nazi propagandist who might also be an American spy, it skewers ideology with deadpan bite. Like Tidhar’s grim jokes that undercut Wolf’s swagger, Vonnegut’s humor disarms and condemns at once, making the laughter feel dangerously close to the bone.