The Examined Life
Born in the Bronx in 1936, Dom DeLillo earned a Bachelor’s in Communications from Fordham. He first worked as a copyeditor. He began writing novels in ’66. His first, Americana, was published in ’71. His eighth, White Noise, in ’86, got the attention of critics. His eleventh, Mao II, ’91, won the PEN/Faulkner Award. I just finished it and I am uncertain whether I understood the main point. It is the story of a reclusive writer, his male assistant, the latter’s ex-Moonie girlfriend, and a female photographer whose main work involves authors. The principal theme seems to be individualism vs. mass servitude. The title refers to a painting. Mentioned briefly, I am puzzled as to its significance. The war in Lebanon is also a major part of the proceedings in the narrative’s final stages. The most interesting aspect is likening serious writers, those who challenge society, to terrorists. This doesn’t work for me for the obvious reason of body count. Such a writer likely inflicts pain on loved ones and anger in the general public, but he does not kill innocents. As usual, I cherry-pick excerpts: “Every book is a bug-eyed race, let’s have it. Must finish. Can’t die yet.” I experienced that until the majority of my own work was done, even though no publisher was waiting for it, the ego in full control, as if the world couldn’t do without my stuff. Since then, writing has become such fun. Anyway, here’s a really good thought that requires no commentary: “All sex is a form of longing even while it happens.” And: “We are put away for our thoughts, one way or another.” I disagree at this being universal, although dissidents often experience it, especially in totalitarian states. And: “It’s the novelist who understands the secret life, the rage that underlies all obscurity and neglect…” It’s not exclusive to artists, as Hollywood egomaniacs seem to think. I don’t believe that artists are superior to businessmen and CEOs, that art is the noblest of pursuits — thank heaven for all those who produce food and goods, who know how to fix things. Everyone has an important role to play, poor to rich, though no one is irreplaceable. The following is more like it: “…the shit pile of hopeless prose.” I often question whether any of my work has even the slightest value, yet I go on. The phrase reminds me of Trent Reznor’s Hurt — “my empire of dirt” — , so brilliantly, hauntingly captured by an aging Johnny Cash. And: “The only way to be in the world was to write himself there.” This is a sentiment I often experience, feeling more like an observer, outsider, a robot than a human being. And: “It was writing that caused his life to disappear,” meaning, I believe, that the endeavor and thinking about it result in so much time on one’s own. And: “Everybody’s nowhere,” ultimate existential angst, perhaps the longing to be free of a feeling of isolation. 336 users at Amazon have rated Mao II, forging to a consensus of 4.2 on a scale of five. I’ll go with 3.25. There are 18 novels listed on DeLillo’s Wiki profile, one short story collection, one screenplay and ten plays. Three of his novels have been adapted to the big screen… In the late ’90s I participated in readings sponsored by an Italian-American group, done in the basement of a Greenwich Village restaurant. It may have resulted in one book sale. I stopped attending after two years or so. One night the group leader, a published poet-college prof, got to pontificating about how important it was to support each other. He excoriated DeLillo, who refused the label of Italian-American writer, deeming it “ghettoizing.” I didn’t have a problem with that, although I don’t shy away from the label. I don’t know what percentage of my characters are Italian-American, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it’s as high as 75%. But one should not buy a book simply because it matches ethnicity. It needs to incite interest, otherwise it will rest on a shelf unread. There are no Italian-Americans in Mao II. So What? It’s still good work, despite its feel of being unfinished. The books I respect most are those that try to understand the bittersweet mystery of life.
But I wore a mask and was fully vaxed. Headline from nypost.com: “Unmasked: De Blasio’s COVID czar admits to attending ‘deviant’ drug-fueled sex parties during pandemic.”
More do as I say, not as I do. Headline from foxnews.com: “‘Surprising’: Gun ownership on the rise among liberals according to a new report.”
Hallelujah! After two months of seeing nothing but popup ads for Dems on youtube there was one from DT last night. I still clicked off after five seconds, but I didn’t give the image the finger.
My thanks to the woman who delivered a cache of grammar workbooks, sweetened by the presence of two best sellers, and to the gentleman who donated four paperbacks; and to the one who bought a Mozart CD and Donnie Darko (2001) on DVD; and to the one who purchased The Seat of the Soul by Gary Zukav; and to my Constant Benefactress, who took home Inside Out by Yours Truly, saying she liked, as I described it, books that are “very naughty.” I hope so.
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