A mess. Opens with the reactionary premise that “the future belongs to crowds” (16) and descends from there. Something about a reclusive writer and another writer kidnapped by Lebanese Maoists. I suspect there is a concordance here between the artist who wishes to remain out of the public spotlight and the artist who is forcibly hidden. Dunno. The whole thing is kinda gross.

My copy is a first edition, which has a Pynchon blurb on the back--no surprise he likes it, considering P’s own alleged reclusiveness. “When a writer doesn’t show his face, he becomes a local symptom of God’s famous reluctance to appear” (36). D, you can suck P off on your own time. Even worse: “The state should want to kill all writers. Every government, every group that holds power or aspires to power should feel so threatened by writers that they hunt them down, everywhere” (97). We gonna just have to get over ourselves, yo. But, even worser: “For some time now I’ve had the feeling that novelists and terrorists are playing a zero-sum game” (156)--“Beckett is the last writer to shape the way we think and see. After him, the major work involves midair explosions and crumbled buildings. This is the new tragic narrative” (157). This is just Marinetti. Barf.

Similar concern as in White Noise: "Because we’re giving way to terror, to news of terror, to tape recorders and cameras, to radios, to bombs stashed in radios. News of disaster is the only narrative people need” (42).

Lotsa weird stuff about Reverend Moon. Uhh, yeah.

Recommended for readers with their own cosmologies of pain, city nomads more strange than herdsmen in the Sahel, and persons with a need for internal dissent, self-argument.

As with Underworld, the opening prologue—based upon an actual occurrence—of the mass-wedding of young and youngish couples of the Unification Church, held in Yankee Stadium and performed by the Reverend Sun Myung Moon, is one of the strongest points of the book. DeLillo excels at such portraits set to the page, crisply and potently capturing the atmosphere of this bizarre and fascinating spectacle, with its ordered ranks of veils and ties, the regimented structure and candle-row colors that delineated the transformation of an intimate ceremony of personal commitment into a crowded and raucous affirmation of cultish charisma. After such a starkly adrenal opening, DeLillo then blurs and abrades with his initial meet-and-greet between reclusive author Bill Gray and Brita, a journalist who is bound and bent upon photographing every living major writer—and continuing through to the confusing ending in Beirut, which sees Brita apparently about to compound Bill's failure to spring a versifying hostage held by Lebanese terrorists. This is primarily a series of mobile and difficult dialogues—delivered by characters who all sound like Don DeLillo—centering upon the state of art, fiction, photography, and mass-phenomena in this, our modern age, when terrorism was on the verge of becoming the Next Big Thing—compared to fictional portraits or visual representations, a far more potent and pyrotechnic means of effecting changes in societies, of steering political discourse, of grabbing the world's attention and focussing it upon problems that were previously ignored. Where are we at when the authorial pen has been displaced in immediacy and influence by the kalashnikov and high-explosives? When murderous theatre proves the ablest way to advance one's political agenda, to broadcast in—and capture—the medium of the real?

Mao II was my introduction to Don DeLillo, read many, many years ago. I enjoyed it even while feeling it cooly kept me at a distance—its text, to me, a murky river whose current moved quickly and revealed little upon the first glance. I would actually like to return to this someday, especially in this new millennium featuring the Global War on Terror and that most horrific and course-changing of days: September 11th, 2001. I was impressed with the style and trappings of Mao II the first time around, while never believing I had fully grasped what DeLillo wished to get across—perhaps a second journey would leave me more appreciative of the author's prescience in gauging the future potentiality for Terror.

I have an up and down relationship with Don DeLillo’s novels. I have enjoyed some of them thoroughly (Underworld and Libra) and others not so much. Similarly, I find my appreciation of DeLillo's writing vacillates quite a bit even as I read a particular novel. There were times in Mao II where I was thoroughly enjoying the reading experience; other times I felt like I was plodding uphill. I am always impressed, although certainly at times depressed, by DeLillo’s depiction of our world. He, more than any other writer I have come across, can provide a vivid picture of today while accurately foretelling what is to come. His images seem to span time in a way that does not feel dated even after 20 to 30 years.

In Mao II it is the author of fiction versus the terrorist. The writer of fiction’s role to define or at least clarify our culture has been usurped by the terrorist. Bill Gray, one of the most respected authors of his time, even though he had only published two novels, has spent many years hiding from his readers, hiding from the media. He writes every day on his third novel but is unable to produce work that he is confident about publishing or that his assistant, Scott, even supports publishing. Scott organizes Bill’s life, his writing and what interaction Bill has with the outside world. Scott effectively collects and classifies information, but for what purpose? Bill eventually runs from his work and secluded life. He runs toward the terrorists. In the process his writing returns to its former vibrancy.

Even as I have struggled at times through a DeLillo novel, I feel I gain insight and greater understanding of my world. That is one of the reasons I read, and DeLillo fills that particular need as well as any author I have encountered.

قدرتمند ترین اثری که از دلیلو خواندم و فکر میکنم اولین اثر از این نویسنده هست که به فارسی و سال ۱۳۹۴ چاپ شده بود.

«مائو دوم» نوشته دون دلیلو رمانی تفکربرانگیز و عمیقاً فلسفی است که به هویت، شهرت و قدرت تصاویر در دنیای مدرن می‌پردازد. این رمان بیل گری، نویسنده منزوی را دنبال می کند که با احساس خود و جذابیت شهرت دست و پنجه نرم می کند، در حالی که تأثیر رسانه های جمعی و تروریسم بر جامعه را نیز بررسی می کند.

نثر دلیلو غنایی و هم است و خوانندگان را به دنیایی می کشاند که در آن واقعیت و داستان با هم محو می شوند و مرزهای بین فردیت و فرهنگ توده به طور فزاینده ای ضعیف می شود. دلیلو با خلق شخصیت معمایی بیل گری و تعاملاتش با زن جوانی به نام کارن، پرسش هایی در مورد ماهیت هنر، مسئولیت های هنرمندان، و راه هایی که افراد در جستجوی معنا و ارتباط در جهانی اشباع شده از آن هستند، مطرح می کند.

یکی از جذاب‌ترین جنبه‌های رمان، بررسی پویایی قدرت در روابط بین هنرمندان، مخاطبان و رسانه‌ها است. دلیلو به طرز ماهرانه‌ای مضامین دستکاری، کنترل و خودمختاری را به هم می‌پیوندد و خوانندگان را به چالش می‌کشد تا پیامدهای زندگی در جامعه‌ای را در نظر بگیرند که هویت شخصی اغلب توسط نیروهای خارجی خارج از کنترل ما شکل می‌گیرد.

Delillo ha la palese capacità di raccontare l’implosione e la fragilità della società contemporanea come pochi altri.
Qui se la gioca parecchio in anticipo sul clima di terrore e sulla violenza su vasta scala a venire.
Diverse citazioni delle torri gemelle, ancora svettanti nel '91, sono inserite in un contesto che non promette niente di buono.

Personaggi: Bill / Scott / Karen / Brita
Luoghi: New York / Londra / Beirut

Terrorismo, regimi totalitari, povertà, sette, riti di massa, solitudine.
Il rapporto tra la massa e l’identità personale.
Simulacro e iperrealtà.

Devo ammettere che però mi è sembrato più volte ripetitivo (Karen e i senzatetto, il poeta recluso, il libro infinito), lasciandomi con pochi appigli in una trama che avanza per singoli momenti senza troppa coesione.
E insomma, con tutti i suoi pregi non mi trovo proprio d’accordo con chi grida al capolavoro. [71/100]

Due citazioni su tutte:

“Le notizie dei disastri sono l’unica narrativa di cui la gente ha bisogno. Più sono cupe le notizie, più è grandiosa la narrativa.”

“La gente fa dondolare bustine di tè sopra l’acqua bollente dentro tazze bianche. Le macchine sfrecciano silenziose sulle autostrade, strisce di luce colorata. La gente siede dietro le scrivanie e guarda i muri dell’ufficio. Annusa le proprie camicie e le getta nel cesto della biancheria sporca. La gente si accomoda su poltrone numerate e vola attraverso fusi orari e alti cirri e notti fonde, sapendo che c’è qualcosa che ha dimenticato di fare.
Il futuro appartiene alle masse.”

Uma interessante reflexão sobre o papel e influência cultural que a palavra escrita teve durante a história, e a forma como esta se alterou na sociedade actual. DeLillo parece sugerir que a importância da palavra escrita e a sua capacidade de alterar o panorama moral e cultural da sociedade foi sendo gradualmente suplantada pela imagem e o terror. No entanto, evidencia que toda e qualquer ideia antes de tomar forma é, habitualmente, primeiro anotada em forma escrita e que, consequentemente, tem a sua génese na escrita (inclusive em documentos e obras que antecedem o autor destas novas ideias).
Apesar de se debruçar sobre um tema extremamente interessante (recorrendo a figuras históricas centrais como Mao Tsé Tsung, autor do "livrinho vermelho" ou Hitler, autor do "Mein Kampf" como exemplos do poder destruidor e motor cultural e social da palavra), o romance é por vezes pouco imersivo, parecendo ser mais uma série de acontecimentos algo erráticos e dispersos (ainda que relacionados entre si) do que um romance propriamente dito. O objectivo do autor parece ser mais o de refletir e colocar o leitor a ponderar sobre o tema indicado acima do que construir uma narrativa com principio, meio e fim. No entanto, a ideia que transmite e a forma como o faz é de tal modo poderosa que dispensa uma narrativa demasiado limpinha, sendo um romance que permanece na memória do leitor muito depois deste o ter acabado de ler.

I once read an interview with DeLillo, where he claimed that he often liked to change or rearrange words in his sentences for the sound or effect it created, even if it ended up changing the meaning of the sentence entirely. For me, this just smacks of irresponsibility for someone held in such high literary esteem, and demonstrates his overriding pretentiousness as a novelist.

The characters in this novel speak without any realism, seeming to communicate only in profound aphorisms to pound home the message of the book, and not one of them is at all likeable. I struggled on with it until I got about two-thirds of the way through, when I realised that I didn't care about any of them, or anything that happened to them, and thus it would be pointless to continue reading. Even when I skipped to the end to find out the fate of the "reclusive writer" Bill Gray, I still wasn't at all moved.

The only reason I picked up this book in the first place was because I'd heard the character was based on JD Salinger, but then Salinger's own work has so far failed to grab me in any real way, so maybe that should have been an indicator. I have yet to read a good book by DeLillo, though I have since seen worse examples of his work in "The Body Artist" - and I know it's a minor point, but Bill Gray, as a character name? Surely someone of DeLillo's stature can come up with something a little more imaginative than that...

4,5 stelute

Is it a school requirement to give the students the WORST books for them to read? Being an English major really fucking sucks sometimes.

DeLillo has always been good at capturing the way people actually talk -- syntax, cadence, etc.-- but his characters don't usually say things normal people say. They are always totally self-aware and generally pretty intelligent. They understand the psycho-socio-philosophical implications of lighting a cigarette; they get the significance of a half-second pause in a conversation. They can read each others' minds, finish each others' sentences. And this can be distracting, can take you right out of the book. But if you don't mind that (and I still haven't decided), DeLillo has a lot to offer.

writers, violence, and answering machines

“Every sentence has a truth waiting at the end of it and the writer learns how to know it when he finally gets there. On one level this truth is the swing of the sentence, the beat and poise, but down deeper it's the integrity of the writer as he matches with the language. I've always seen myself in sentences. I begin to recognize myself, word by word, as I work through a sentence. The language of my books has shaped me as a man. There's a moral force in a sentence when it comes out right. It speaks the writer's will to live.” ― Don DeLillo, Mao II

Originally read in 2004, while living in Virginia.

This was my introduction to DeLillo. I was 20 I was recovering in Virginia after heart surgery in Pittsburgh. My dad was finishing his Air Force career at Langley AFB in Yorktown and I was getting a lot of use from a local library. I picked out a couple books one week: Mao II (1991) by Don Delillo, Dance, Dance, Dance (1994) by Haruki Murakami, and Towing Jehovah (1994) by James K. Morrow. It was a very successful trip to the library and was the beginning of my love affair with both DeLillo and Murakami.

I’ll review the book more later, but for now, I can point to this book as being the one that made me both want to BE a writer and feel the intimidation of what being a GREAT writer meant.