Brookner was a first-generation Britisher — the only child of Polish Jews, born in 1928 — a position advantageous (or so I’ve long thought) for the writer of fiction. The child of immigrants understands her countrymen, while seeing them as they cannot see themselves. Brookner studied art history (with the infamous Soviet spy Anthony Blunt), put out well-received scholarly books, joined the faculty at the Courtauld Institute of Art. A most impressive life. Then, at the age of 53, she published a novel. Those of us dismayed by lists of successful people under 30 should take heart. In the ensuing 28 years, she published 23 more (and one slim novella).

Learning these facts from Brookner’s obituaries in 2016, I was intrigued. I picked up her first book, “The Debut” (published originally as “A Start in Life”). Upon finishing it, I went to the Strand and bought copies of every one of her novels. I’ve had to ration them; they’re so brief they last me only two days and besides, it brings me joy to know there are Anita Brookner works I’ve not yet read.

The prevailing criticism of Brookner is that her work is repetitive. There are concerns she returns to: the single woman who wishes not to be, the dutiful daughter overwhelmed by filial obligation, the family that is not unhappy but not quite happy. I find such intelligence and vitality in her books that it does not bother me that they amount to variations on a theme. Repetition is part of the particular pleasure; the books’ familiarity, as well as the cunning with which the author pushes herself to reinvent the form she’s chosen as her own.

My affection is rooted in the fact that Brookner’s hobbyhorses are my own. There’s food: “Hartmann, a voluptuary, lowered a spoonful of brown sugar crystals into his coffee cup, then placed a square of bitter chocolate on his tongue, and, while it was dissolving, lit his first cigarette.” (“Latecomers.”) There’s fashion: “Caroline undulated like a siren, clutching her bag, her scarves, touching her chains, her feet slipping about in ridiculously fragile sandals.” (“Providence.”)

It should be boring, but it’s invigorating to see the most quotidian things through Brookner’s intelligent eyes. Her heroines go for long walks: “She was too lonely to sit in her room reading, too restless to work. She went back to Edith Grove and started walking from there, down to the river, along the embankment to Chelsea Old Church, all the way to Victoria and back to Sloane Square and along the King’s Road and into the Fulham Road until it got too late and she caught the 31 bus home.” (“The Debut.”) They find comfort in looking at art: “I wanted to look at pictures, either in the National Gallery or in the Wallace Collection. This last was a haven of coolness, even of gloom, yet it was deserted, except for discreet knots of American ladies looking at snuff boxes in glass cases.” (“Dolly.”)