61st book of 2020.

This is my first foray into DeLillo's work, yet I don't feel like I've missed out on much, at least not with this particular piece. I would describe this as a 'nothing' book. The entire narrative simply washed over me, failing to elicit any sort of reaction. The writing style also grated on my nerves. It's not objectively bad, but certain lines seemed utterly pointless and irritating. There were numerous lines like this: 'Lauren ate her breakfast, or not, it didn't matter.' Or sentences that contradicted themselves in a painfully obvious way: 'When she got out the car, someone was there. She wasn't out of the car, she was still half in...' Well, which is it? The abundance of such wishy-washy sentences and contradictions made for a frustrating reading experience at times. While some lines were poetic, overall I found the book underwhelming. Additionally, marketing it as a 'ghost' story is completely inaccurate and off the mark. There is hardly any plot to speak of, and nothing particularly profound is conveyed either. DeLillo hammers the reader with his themes of grief, loneliness, and time to such an extent that it becomes dull. I'm hoping that 'White Noise' is significantly better. Granted, it wouldn't be difficult to surpass this one.

І знову Дон Делілло про смерть

Even vultures know that American literature doesn't satisfy my reading appetite and that I can't get rid of the impression that every local writer, with one eye, reads only the first written chapter, and with the other, is already choosing a tie for a meeting with a film producer.

In this case, De Lilo shoots in the Bergman style and hits the target with only one misstep: he has forgotten the basic principle of minimalism, so he is adding, somehow the most precisely where it should be subtracted. In this way, he managed to make me look at what else he has written: I would say that his other centers would be more easily accessible. This one, however, as expected, missed (Bolaño, I think, somewhere writes about the difference between the bakery from the microwave and the French bakery, and here it's not about the puking comparative advantage), because of which Bodi's artist is a rather good idea executed quite pointlessly.

It's not just about the fact that we don't agree on what is art and what is expression (for me, painting a vagina is exclusively a strange expression). Nor about the fact that I don't think it's necessary to introduce a Japanese woman as a symbol of calm self-awareness (for example, even though I don't know what that woman will do for him, with or without a jacket). Nor that that scene in the tub would be three hundred and seventy-one times more functional if he had let me assume the groping for genitalia. Nor about the fact that such an empty protagonist can't be an episodist, let alone the core of the plot. Nor about the fact that a coherent writer should know how to play objectivity, at least out of decency.

It's about the fact that you can't rely on slowness if you don't have the patience to execute something more inventive than lowering the number of revolutions. In other words, when you let Sepultura* go back, you listen to Sepultura back.

What a pity for the idea.

*De Lilo doesn't mention Sepultura (fortunately for Sepultura), but his setting is as unfortunate as those who believe in the omnipotence and immutability of the lord of evil who comes at such a stupid call.

Fairly standard dicklit fare - a tortured 60-something artist with a 30-something wife, engaging in overly intellectualised pontification about time, life, art, and death. The writing is insufferably pretentious, and it's only not called purple prose because a dude approved by other dudes wrote it.

However, there is one good bit in the book (admittedly, it's pretty great):

You don't know how to love the ones you love until they disappear abruptly. Then you understand how thinly distanced from their suffering, how sparing of self you often were, only rarely unguarded of heart, working your networks of give-and-take.

I felt that viscerally. It truly hit home. It made me realise the importance of being absurdly generous in love. We should love our loved ones better while we still have the chance. Life is unpredictable, and we never know when they might be gone. So, let's not hold back. Let's show them how much we care and make every moment count. Because in the end, it's the love we give and receive that truly matters.

No review yet. It's rather strange, actually. I'm not entirely sure why I've never written one. Perhaps it's because I've been so caught up in other things, or maybe I just haven't found the right words. But as I think about it now, I realize that there's so much to say. “Past, present and future are not amenities of language. Time unfolds into the seams of being. It passes through you, making and shaping. ” This quote by Don DeLillo really strikes a chord with me. It makes me think about how time is such an integral part of our lives, constantly influencing and changing us. Maybe it's time for me to finally put pen to paper and write that review. To share my thoughts and experiences, and to try and make sense of the past, present, and future.

I wasn't impressed with the last DeLillo book I read (Point Omega). And I sure as hell wasn't impressed with this one.

'The Body Artist' starts off with a breakfast. A breakfast between a woman and her husband in their home. A breakfast that runs on for TWENTY-SIX PAGES. Twenty-six pages of repetitive writing, navel-gazing, and viewing the mundane under a microscope to make up for the fact that nothing much actually happens. I mean, Christ, the book is only 128 pages in total, and we get to spend almost a fifth of it on breakfast. If the pace of a story is important to you, you'll be bouncing your face off a brick wall right at the beginning.

From there on the book gets a little better. The husband kills himself, the woman grieves in her own odd way, and a mysterious stranger suddenly appears in the house who is not quite human in the traditional sense. The encounters between the woman and the stranger bring into question the concepts of time, space, ability, and memory. The possibility of the stranger being something spectral, alien, time-traveling, or mentally handicapped are pondered. With these somewhat intriguing, eerie, and odd additives to the story, 'The Body Artist' is able to hold your attention just enough to make it to the end. And by the end you'll probably feel like you should like the book a lot more than you actually do because of the author's pedigree.

We all know what DeLillo is trying to do. He fancies himself a performer of "High Art" with the written word. And in the world of High Art, if you have the clout, you can piss on a piece of canvas and have others declare it brilliant while simultaneously suggesting that anyone pissed off (pun intended) by your performance is just not smart enough to "get it".

Oh, I get it. Hell, DeLillo actually goes as far as putting this little lesson in High Art on the page for us all to see in a small segue where a writer interviews The Body Artist and reviews her performance art and blatantly states that people who found the "High Art" boring as fuck and intolerable were "missing out". Well, I have to be honest. Despite understanding all the depths the author was trying to mine out of this tale, part of me sure wishes I'd missed out. Apparently, pretentiousness is worth a whole lot more to DeLillo than any semblance of plot or pace.

But another part of me got a little something something (if you've read the story, you'll know that's a pun) out of this book. The writing is surreal; intimate at times, coldly detached at others. I didn't dig too much of it, but sometimes DeLillo's writing hit's the mark, making it hard to forget. There are particular ideas and scenes that stuck with me too. It's also mercifully short. For that, I'll grant 'The Body Artist' two stars.

Overall, 'The Body Artist' is a mixed bag. It has its moments of interesting exploration into the human psyche and the nature of existence, but it's also bogged down by its slow pace and pretentiousness. DeLillo's writing style is unique and sometimes captivating, but it doesn't always translate into a satisfying reading experience. If you're a die-hard DeLillo fan or someone who enjoys experimental literature, you might find more to appreciate in this book. However, if you're looking for a fast-paced, engaging story with a clear plot, you might want to look elsewhere.

Adam thought that maybe the writings were of a book, but
in the house where he was waiting, with the book in hand, sitting with his back to a support
he thought, he didn't think
It couldn't be worse for any woman.

Adam was in a state of confusion. He wasn't sure if what he had found was truly something significant or just a random collection of words. The house was quiet, and he was alone with his thoughts. As he sat there, he couldn't help but wonder what this all meant.

Maybe it was a sign, or maybe it was just a coincidence. He didn't know, but he knew that he couldn't ignore it. He decided to take the book with him and try to figure out its meaning.

As he left the house, he felt a sense of determination. He was going to solve this mystery, no matter how long it took.

Who Is He? *spoilers*

After the tragic death of her husband, Lauren discovers an uninvited guest in the rented house she must vacate in a few short weeks. Lauren returns to the house in an attempt to sense the presence of her husband, who committed suicide one day after leaving the house for what was supposed to be a routine "business" trip.

Lauren is torn between calling the police, hospitals, or simply observing the young man for a while. He is strange, and she is determined to understand who or what he is. He barely speaks, and when he does, he struggles to form coherent sentences. Lauren begins to suspect that he might be an alien, and as the reader will soon discover, he is indeed a sort of alien in the sense that he doesn't truly belong to this world.

As you might have guessed, I once again found this novel captivating. There is something indescribable about DD's writing that draws me in and makes me empathize with his characters on some level. I feel a sense of disorientation in this context: a world suffocated by media, technology, and social networks.

Ha! I'm writing in a blog, yes, a contradiction... but as Heidegger would say, this is the world I was "thrown" into. I didn't choose it, but I have to navigate through it. Just like DD's characters, they do their best to move forward, sometimes finding unconventional ways to do so.

This is definitely a book that I will reread.

I started my acquaintance with the author from "The Artist" and it didn't disappoint: the form is exactly what I adore.

The plot in this case doesn't play a role for me, although specifically here the theme that concerns me and that I'm afraid of, and yet it didn't grip me (and that's what I lacked).

Perhaps it's because I was more focused on the artistic expression and the overall atmosphere that the work created.

The way the author presented the story, with its unique style and tone, was captivating.

Even though the theme was one that I had an emotional connection to, it didn't quite draw me in as deeply as I had hoped.

Maybe it needed a bit more development or a different approach to really make me feel its full impact.

Nevertheless, I still appreciate the work for its form and the effort that went into creating it.

It has given me something to think about and has inspired me in my own creative pursuits.

I look forward to seeing what else this author has in store for us in the future.

"Mi DeLillo favorito" can be rewritten and expanded as follows:

My favorite DeLillo.

Don DeLillo is an outstanding American writer, and among his works, there is one that holds a special place in my heart. His unique writing style and profound exploration of various themes make his works truly captivating.

One of the aspects that I love about DeLillo's writing is his ability to create vivid and complex characters. Each character is carefully crafted, with their own distinct personalities, motives, and flaws. Through his detailed descriptions and in-depth characterizations, DeLillo brings these characters to life on the page, making them feel real and relatable.

Another thing that吸引 me to DeLillo's works is his exploration of contemporary social and cultural issues. He delves into topics such as technology, consumerism, globalization, and the human condition in a thought-provoking and often disturbing way. His works force readers to confront the realities of our modern world and question our values and beliefs.

In conclusion, my favorite DeLillo work is a masterpiece that combines great writing, compelling characters, and profound themes. It is a book that I will continue to revisit and enjoy for years to come.

This novelette is truly a breath of fresh air in the long row of books that I have devoured. It stands out as a unique gem, and Don DeLillo is indeed an outstanding author whose other works I am eager to explore within this year. I already possess copies of his Underworld, Mao II, and Falling Man.

In this novel, DeLillo showcases Nabokov's mastery of prose that borders on poetry and the skillful storytelling that can be likened to Ian McEwan's in his masterpiece Enduring Love. The remarkable difference, however, lies in the fact that while McEwan provides a clinical description of the reason behind the behavior of his mysterious character in Enduring Love, DeLillo leaves us hanging, speculating whether Mr. Tuttle is a ghost, Rey himself, Lauren herself (as a body artist, she can make herself resemble a ghost), or simply a figment of Lauren's imagination.

The first chapter is truly a delight to read. It is so captivating that you can already feel that you've gotten your money's worth by reading those initial 27 out of 126 pages. It is unforgettable, with its simple yet detailed narrative. The next time you have breakfast with your spouse, you might find yourself paying more attention to your cereal and orange juice, or if you have a kitchen window, you'll appreciate the city birds (ibong maya) asking for some of your bread crumbs.

As most parts of this novel should be read like poetry, I firmly believe that DeLillo intends it to be categorized as a tragic love story. I read the last 20 pages twice, seeking an answer to the question of who Mr. Tuttle really is. I think he is just a product of Lauren's imagination. Notice that the story does not disclose what happened to him in the end. Lauren loved Rey so deeply that she had to return to the house and live alone. Then, she began imagining things, which is not uncommon for her, considering that as a body artist, she can also mimic other people's voices.

However, it is pointless to argue about an excellent piece of literary work that should be savored like a poem. We can all have our own interpretations. This could be a tragic love story between Rey and Lauren, or perhaps a breakup novel, as Rey was already contemplating leaving Lauren (his third wife), which is why Lauren claimed she didn't have the keys to the car, only to later reveal that she had smashed them. Whether it's tragic or a breakup, it remains a love story at its core.

This is yet another book from my Masters reading list that I am rereading. For the second time, being asked to look more closely is generating a deeper appreciation of what has been written and the techniques used.

The first chapter is filled with an astonishing amount of detail about what is essentially nothing happening over the breakfast table. A couple half-communicates, lost in their own little worlds and only half-listening to each other. If all books were written like this, everything would be 1000 pages long. It is a curious chapter - in the second paragraph it says “It happened this final morning…” but you have no idea what is final about it until later.

The details from the first chapter linger in the mind. The color of cereal packets, and the hair in her mouth “a short pale strand that wasn’t hers and wasn’t his.” She keeps coming back to this hair, and ‘the intimate passage of the hair from person to person and somehow mouth to mouth across years and cities and diseases and unclean foods and many baneful body fluids.”

Then there is a sudden change - a three-page interruption that reads like a press report. It provides all the background information we could want to know about Rey, the man at the breakfast table. In the last line we learn that he was survived by his wife Lauren, the body artist. We have no idea what that means.

In the following chapters, there is an excellent portrayal of grief. “The plan was to organize time until she could live again.” Even the rooms in the house play a role in presenting the grief. “She sat in the panelled room and tried to read. First she’d build a fire. It was a room designed aspiringly for a brandy and a fire, a failed room, perversely furnished, and she drank tea and tried to read a book. But she’d make her way through a page and stare indifferently at objects fixed in space.”

There are some wonderful lines like, “She stopped listening to weather reports. She took the weather as it came, chill rain and blowy days and the great hunched boulders in the slant fields, like clan emblems, pulsing with stormlight and story and time.” That is a line to get lost in - the stormy weather, the rugged landscape, the loneliness reflected in the surroundings. Brilliant.

Alone in the house, we read some of the passages I enjoyed the most about how Lauren passes her time. She spends hours in front of the computer, watching a live video feed of a road junction in Finland. “It was interesting to her because it was happening now, as she sat here, and because it happened twenty-four hours a day, facelessly, cars entering and leaving Kotka, or just the empty road in the dead times. The dead times were best.”

Kotka, a town of 50,000 people in the south of Finland. A vast country with only five million inhabitants. There are always going to be quiet, dead times on the video feed.

“She imagined someone might masturbate to this, the appearance of a car on the road to Kotka in the middle of the night. It made her want to laugh….It emptied her mind and made her feel the deep silence of other places, the mystery of seeing over the world to a place stripped of everything but a road the approaches and recedes, both relatives occurring at once, and the number changed in the digital display with an odd and hollow urgency, the seconds advancing towards the minute, the minutes climbing hourward, and she sat and watched, waiting for a car to take fleeting shape on the roadway.”

What a great way to describe the passing of time in such a distinct and different way.

Again we encounter a sudden change. You might expect the next events to be drawn out, the noises, hints and suggestions, especially after that first chapter. But no, “She found him the next day in a small bedroom off the empty room at the far end of the hall on the third floor. He was smallish and fine-bodied and at first she thought he was a kid, sandy-haired and roused from deep sleep, or medicated maybe.”

She calls him Mr. Tuttle, and his ability to mimic Rey’s voice helps her to deal with the loss. He is a stand-in, a partial replacement and had he not been then surely he would have been removed sooner. Instead there are sixty pages of learning to communicate with him, to winkle out the little snatches of voice memory that he holds.

Another unnumbered chapter, like the death report. This talks about Lauren’s show in Boston, where she contorts her body and forms it into Tuttle, a small naked man. She is even able to talk in his voice. She is unable to say if this is a piece about Rey.

After this comes the final chapter. Beautifully descriptive, almost dreamlike. And hard to figure out. What is real and what isn’t. What is imagined and what is real. I think there are several ways to interpret what is there, so it is up to every reader to draw their own conclusions about the book. Or perhaps I am wrong.