An old trail opposed to change. A gate with the top slat for comments, “I was just here” etc. I must have missed you because the day hadn’t. Consequently, there is misery in your circle dotted I’s. Who takes the time to cauterize the wood and burn the careless pistols? Ah sure, it’s only testosterone but it’s fading just the same.
Squandered, fairly innocent chimes hanging from a tree. This place has suddenly become quietly profound. Formally just the jingle of tact, none of which was particularly happening. Now an unthematic sound abides inclusively. The chimes allow someone’s prayers to catch a wind and wave phonetically.
Don DeLillo, the author of White Noise and Underworld, has given us one of his best novels to date at the ripe old age of 79. The subject matter is fitting. It’s about mortality, life after death — or its absence — and is a poetic meditation on the potential of science to extend said life. It may also be about the potential for junk science to heighten and exploit our delusions regarding the hereafter, but DeLillo doesn’t tell us how we should take this. One way or the other. And its success, its strong, compact prose, its aphoristic beauty in parts, its solid craftsmanship, also go against one of my own (poorly supported) theories about artistic creation: That its quality tends to go down over time, and with novelists, especially, declines rapidly after one’s 30s or 40s. DeLillo is clearly, skillfully playing with our prejudices and beliefs on several levels. What is … Click to continue . . .