The stories recounted in John Barth's latest collection, "The Development," aren't actually stories. Any of the incredibly self-aware narrators will tell you (or You) so. "What You're winding up here, if You happen to exist, is ... not a Story," states the bluntest of the bunch. Rather, these are "non-stories," histories, extrapolated situations, go-nowhere scenes.

This is because nothing much happens in Heron Bay Estates, the semi-gated community on Maryland's Eastern Shore where all "The Development's" principals reside. There's death, yeah, but that's nothing more than an expected disruption for these neighbors, most of whom are already past retirement age. So the narrators give us accounts of their boring lives, of board association meetings and progressive dinners and commonplace, accidental adulteries -- none of which have any "gratifying Resolution or capital-E Ending."

Which is not to say that they are boring. Barth's lyrical maneuverings are welcome substitutes for the twists of a conventional plot. His characters, in questioning whether We or You or Story exist, create linguistic games of whodunit as good as any murder mystery. Most impressive of all: Unlike so many self-referential styles that keep one distanced from the text, Barth's voice -- which, a little unbelievably, is shared by seven separate narrators -- draws You in.

As one progresses through the stories, it becomes apparent that these geezers are uncomfortable in their comfort. While no real danger exists in Heron Bay, the residents still succumb to fears of financial crises, global warming, terrorism and loneliness. What's interesting is that they don't seem to fear death so much as growing even older; the worst possible day for these married couples is when they must relinquish their private homes and move to Bayview Manor, Heron Bay's assisted-living facility.

To pass time, they attend overly contrived theme parties ("Toga Party," "Progressive Dinner") and dream themselves into different, perhaps more interesting marriages ("The Bard Award," "Teardown"). Acting on their collective boredom, and stoking a collective paranoia that resonates throughout the book, in "Peeping Tom" the entire community helps to invent a voyeuristic villain in their midst (or do they?).

Indeed, it is Barth's gentle treatment of post-9/11 America that figures as "The Development's" most powerful element. As the residents deal with the trade-offs of freedom vs. security, Heron Bay Estates becomes a microcosm for the country. Some (the conservatives, mostly) like the gated aspect of their community, but others (the liberals) are irked that they "have to pass through customs every time we come and go, and phone the gatehouse whenever we're expecting a visitor."

The idea that gates and guards will save us from terrorism underscores a certain level of absurdity that can be said to persist in America today, and so this neurosis will resonate with readers who aren't wealthy white geriatrics. Because the fear is at such a constant level, the lack of beginning and end to these stories is justified: A plot may resolve, but paranoia always lingers. It even seeps, if playfully, out of these pages.

Max Ross writes the book column "Cracking Spines" for rakemag.com. He lives in Minneapolis.