Richard Russo has a lot on his mind these days. He’s been thinking about COVID and vaccines, politics, the role of art when the world is spinning out. His new essay collection, “Life and Art,” reflects on these and other concerns as the renowned Maine author, now 75, surveys the cultural landscape, our need for stories, and his own family history.

We meet Russo in a number of settings — worried sick as he aborts a trip and flies home to Portland, where his 7-year-old grandson is in the ER; or calmly dissecting the stellar phrasing in Townes Van Zandt’s song, “Pancho and Lefty”; or pondering the murder of George Floyd and its long-term impact. In these dispatches, we see Russo as family man, literary critic and everyday citizen.

In the essay, “Ghosts,” Russo visits Gloversville, New York, his childhood home and a central vein of exploration in his books, only to find houses abandoned and boarded up in his old neighborhood. It reminds him of news from Appalachia and the rural Midwest, places gutted by the opioid crisis.

“I’m a storyteller, not a politician,” he says. “The problem is that while I may not be responsible for the growing divide between the world’s haves and its have-nots, it’s also true, or at least it feels true, that the world’s disarray is worsening on my watch. What I’d like is to be let off the hook, to be absolved of all wrongdoing, when in truth I feel both complicit and utterly helpless.”

Still, the storyteller in Russo firmly believes that there’s not only a place for stories, but a vital need for them. Facts are one thing, he argues, but without context — namely, more of the story — facts can also mislead. He muses about the appeal of stories and what we want from them. And he freely admits that writers use people as material for their stories, an occupational hazard.

For fans of Russo’s short stories, one of the book’s highlights is his rich analysis of “The Whore’s Child,” an unforgettable tale that he wrote some 20 years ago. In it, Sister Ursula, an 80-year-old nun, enrolls in a fiction writing workshop. She writes about a child, the daughter of a prostitute, who was consigned to a convent, waiting for her absentee father to rescue her. In fact, she was writing about herself. Russo takes up the question of how he, a male author then in his fifties, could dare to write about an elderly Belgian nun. His response, about empathy and imagination, and linking to the father who was largely missing in his own life, is both personal and persuasive.

“In the end we tell stories because we must,” Russo says. “And the real source of that must isn’t talent or knowledge or the authenticity that derives from research and lived experience. It’s mystery. What we don’t understand is what beckons to us.”

In recent years, Russo has cut back his book tours and self-promotion, in order to focus on writing. The dozen pieces in this collection often read like literary op-eds — commentary on the state of the world, interwoven with references to literature. So, for instance, he discusses the aftermath of George Floyd’s death, and ties it to a parable in “The Maltese Falcon.” Implausible as this may seem, Russo works his magic in forging such connections, adding meaning to the “life and art” of the book’s title.

Other pieces in the book explore the backstory of Russo’s novel, “Straight Man,” and its adaptation for TV; Paul Newman’s impact on Russo’s career; the meaning of losing one’s wedding ring — twice; and the unearthing of family secrets.

If this collection has a certain heft, it’s due to the meaty issues Russo has chosen to confront. And yet, these essays abound with humor and anecdotes, as when a fan approaches Russo on a book tour and indicates his surprise at the author’s 5-foot, 7-inch height. Russo agrees, “It’s true. I write like a much-taller man.”

Joan Silverman writes op-eds, essays and book reviews. Her work has appeared in numerous publications including The Christian Science Monitor, Chicago Tribune and Dallas Morning News. She is the author of “Someday This Will Fit,” a collection of linked essays.