A few times a year I’ll buy a book or a CD because of its title alone. “Feels Like the Third Time,” the Freakwater disc, for example. It happens to be good.

Tao Lin’s titles have snagged me more than once. He’s a young American writer, born in 1983 to Taiwanese parents. His novels include “Eeeee Eee Eeee” (2007), and “Richard Yates” (2010), named after the author of “Revolutionary Road.”

He’s written a novella called “Shoplifting From American Apparel” (2009), and a book of poems, “You Are a Little Bit Happier Than I Am” (2006). These titles are mischievous; I’ve found them hard to resist.

Mr. Lin’s new novel, “Taipei,” has his plainest title but is his strongest book. At its best, it has distant echoes of early Hemingway, as filtered through Twitter and Klonopin: it’s terse, neutral, composed of small and often intricate gestures. At its lesser moments, it’s hapless, like a poorly lighted mumblecore movie.