Read it in: ten days

Even before I read Don DeLillo’s novels, I knew he’d be my favourite author.  Just one of those feelings you get from the sort of people who recommend it to you, the sections of bookshops you see it in, the things you read on review websites about it.  And, because I am a wandering, aimless, philosophically minded, endlessly wondering, bored with life, depressive, inquisitive sort of person, DeLillo just happened to suit me perfectly.

This was the third DeLillo novel I’d read.  So it had to qualify with the expectations raised by Cosmopolis and, especially, Underworld.  It did well, I have to say.  It was sufficiently post-modern and depressing.  It was particularly thought-provoking.  It debated important philosophical questions.  It dealt with interesting characters.  The storyline satisfied me.

It is about a man who is professor of Hitler Studies at a university, and who is satisfied with his life until a cloud of toxic material forces his family to evacuate their homes.  This initiates much discussion about life and death and about humanity in general.

But I don’t usually read DeLillo for his storylines.  Rather, I like to see how he molds modern life into a spectral image haunting us every day, though we don’t realise it.  He gives us scenes set in supermarkets, on top of hills overlooking cityscapes, in air raid shelters, in bedrooms, in airports, on aeroplanes, on highways, everywhere that you would never think about setting a scene in.  He is the pedant of novelists – picking out the very trivial parts of life and giving them literary significance, empowering his readers with the ability to see what they always look over.

Actually, DeLillo always makes me quite depressed.  I do take pills for this, but I would like to commend DeLillo with the ability to do so, as it means his works stay in my mind for a long time and the thoughts he provokes are the subject of my mulling over for weeks, months, years to come.

Just to give you an example, here’s a conversation that I love, describing some very philosophic stuff:

We crossed the street.
“I believe, Jack, there are two kinds of people in the world.  Killers and diers.  Most of us are diers.  We don’t have the disposition, the rage or whatever it takes to be a killer.  We let death happen.  We lie down and die.  But think what it’s like to be a killer.  Think how exciting it is, in theory, to kill a person in direct confrontation.  If he dies, you cannot.  To kill him is to gain life-credit.  The more people you kill, the more credit you store up.  It explains any number of massacres, wars, executions.”
“Are you saying that men have tried throughout history to cure themselves of death by killing others?”
“It’s obvious.”
“And you call this exciting?”
“I’m talking theory.  In theory, violence is a form of rebirth.  The dier passively succumbs.  The killer lives on.  What a marvelous equation.  As a marauding band amasses dead bodies, it gathers strength.  Strength accumulates like a favor from the gods.” (page 277)

Read it if you: want to feel ever so slightly depressed, like beautifully crafted language, are prepared to see the world through different eyes, like interesting characters, like plot points that are never quite explained, want to think philosophically about life and death, wonder what sort of literary significance a supermarket has.

While reading this, listen to: Capture the Flag Broken Social Scene, KC Accidental Broken Social Scene, Stars and Sons Broken Social Scene, Hotel Broken Social Scene, Lovers’ SpitBroken Social Scene, Pitter Patter Goes My Heart Broken Social Scene, etc.