Reading British author Rachel Cusk is like following a trail of tiny diamond chips, then stepping back to discover the trail has expanded into a vast, glittering mosaic. Oddly, the voice delivering this vision can sound close to robotic — measured, systematic, vacuumed of inflection, as if programmed to utter only strictest reportage. Cusk’s ninth novel, “Transit” (the second of a projected trilogy, commencing with her superb “Outline”), posits a narrator, Faye, a writer of approximately Cusk’s age, who has moved to London from the country with her two youngish sons following the breakup of her marriage. “Transit” is organized as a series of Faye’s conversations with individuals who crop up during her efforts to make a new life. In succession, they tell their stories: a former beau, a hairdresser, the building contractor, his assistant, a writing student obsessed with the painter Marsden Hartley, the “Chair” (his only name) of a handful of authors arriving to speak at a book festival in some unnamed, blighted, rainy city. Add in a hapless female friend too discombobulated for the fashion industry that employs her, another writing student compelled to rear a rare breed of dog, and a nameless, thoughtful man who provides momentary comfort to the racked and lonely Faye. [...] perhaps most disturbingly, Faye visits a male cousin whose ersatz good life — in a new marriage combining children from prior marriages — quickly and horribly reveals itself to be riddled with resentment and dysfunction. Here’s a gay youth on a beach in Nice, France, realizing his own budding identity: “He had felt both atomised and on the brink of discovery; both disappointed by what the world had revealed to him and in new, faltering correspondence with some of its elements.” Or she considers those exotic dogs: “...[flowing] silently over the landscapes, light and inexorable as death itself, encroaching unseen and unheard on [their] targets ...