As with Offill’s last novel, “Dept. of Speculation,” “Weather” is written not so much in consecutive paragraphs of narration but in often square blocks of text, each set off by white space, as if they were stanzas. They’re the work of a curator who likes a spare hang. Each paragraph is a little lonely, like a figure in an Edward Hopper painting.

These parcels of feeling and intellect drop out one at a time, like packs from a cigarette machine. All the others descend down a slot, awaiting their turn. The effect of this style is to put a pause after every paragraph, to hold it up for a little extra light and a little extra examination, to allow it to linger in the mind.

There’s a bit of the brilliant Lydia Davis in Offill. Davis is the writer who said that she was “not interested, at this point, in creating narrative scenes between characters.”

There’s a bit of David Markson in Offill, too. He’s the writer whose books were mostly made up of unusual facts and anecdotes, which he used to build surprisingly strong novelistic bird’s nests. Offill deploys a lot of sometimes ironic, sometimes plaintive factoids about subjects like the animal world, prepping and Eastern religion.

Offill’s writing is often brisk and comic, and her book’s format underlines her gifts. Here’s a fairly typical paragraph:

“I spend some time pulling books for the doomed adjunct. He has been working on his dissertation for 11 years. I give him reams of copy paper. Binder clips and pens. He is writing about a philosopher I have never heard of. He is minor, but instrumental, he told me. Minor but instrumental!”

There’s a drawback to this format, too. Not every paragraph in a standard novel needs to shine. If you are Theodore Dreiser, no paragraph needs to shine at all. But when each paragraph in a short novel is cocooned in consecrating white space, as they are in “Weather,” the weaker ones can read like off notes rather than merely the veins or arteries that carry a story along.

Here’s another fairly typical paragraph: “Funny how when you’re married all you want is to be anonymous to each other again, but when you’re anonymous all you want is to be married and reading together in bed.” This is true; so true that it’s a truism. In a different novel, you’d slide right past it. But in “Weather,” it’s written on a card thumbtacked to a wall.

Offill has genuine gifts as a comic novelist. “Weather” is her most soulful book, as well. Lizzie’s relationship with her brother delivers heartbreak after heartbreak. She’s pretty funny about him, too. “‘Where did all these hipsters come from?’ says my brother in his fleece-lined trucker’s jacket.” Offill’s humor is saving humor; it’s as if she’s splashing vinegar to deglaze a pan.