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Io e DeLillo la chiudiamo qui.
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El protagonista es un hombre perdido, en la gran ciudad de las pérdidas y las ganancias. El riesgo y la amenaza ante la pérdida total. Huida desesperada. Lejos de un "Yo" solido, moviéndose como un gráfico, dentro del tráfico. El destino lo acecha. Tendrá que enfrentarse a él en soledad. En alguna parte de la cosmo-ciudad.
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What? Huh? Okay?
These are not indications of confusion. I completely absorbed Cosmopolis and experienced every facet of the near-novella.
Given that, I must question the entire purpose of this piece. It certainly provides an ample-enough lens for American excess, disaffection, and dislocation... but I'm not sure it goes anywhere beyond the "image" of this particular portrayal.
I need a haircut too... but unlike the rich, I either cut it myself or drive the 1.2 miles to a Hair Cuttery and make it happen.
These are not indications of confusion. I completely absorbed Cosmopolis and experienced every facet of the near-novella.
Given that, I must question the entire purpose of this piece. It certainly provides an ample-enough lens for American excess, disaffection, and dislocation... but I'm not sure it goes anywhere beyond the "image" of this particular portrayal.
I need a haircut too... but unlike the rich, I either cut it myself or drive the 1.2 miles to a Hair Cuttery and make it happen.
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For me, the slightest of the novels of DeLillo's that I've read (and I am not talking about length), and also the most disappointing, despite the compulsively readable prose. Here's why: One could read Cosmopolis as the logical outcome of what I would call the "economic sublime" that Fredric Jameson begins to outline in his influential Postmodernism: The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism, where Capitalism is an inevitable, all-pervading, almost naturalized force that colonizes every corner of the life-world but that is itself unknowable, the only transcendental signifier.
In Cosmopolis, it is not capitalism itself but a remorselessly technological deterministic finance that has driven every aspect of life into the market culture so inescapable that even a protest where lines from Marx’s Manifesto are hacked onto a giant stock-ticker display is a part of the system -‘a market fantasy’ (99) is revealed as a form of systemic hygiene, purging and lubricating an unfathomable machine. Indeed, for Cosmopolis the only action still outside the system is the ability to take one’s own life - though that too is sought by the cameras, and is considered ‘unoriginal’ , perhaps in an aesthetic sense, by Vija Kinski, his ‘chief of theory’, who seems to be speaking for the author in the following aestheticization of what once went by the name of political economy:
"But we have to give the word a little leeway. Adapt it to the current situation. Because money has taken a turn. All wealth has become wealth for its own sake. There's no other kind of enormous wealth. Money has lost its narrative quality the way painting did once upon a time. Money is talking to itself [...] And property follows of course. The concept of property is changing by the day, by the hour. The enormous expenditures that people make for land and houses and boats and planes. This has nothing to do with traditional self-assurances, okay. Property is no longer about power, personality and command. It's not about vulgar display or tasteful display. Because it no longer has weight or shape. The only thing that matters is the price you pay."
I just feel that DeLillo is usually better than this-- by reducing capitalism to some unknowably sublime process in which "money is talking to itself", he is taking the political out of political economy -- something that, post-2008, post-Picketty, is demonstrably false, however it seemed to reflect the zeitgeist of its time.
In Cosmopolis, it is not capitalism itself but a remorselessly technological deterministic finance that has driven every aspect of life into the market culture so inescapable that even a protest where lines from Marx’s Manifesto are hacked onto a giant stock-ticker display is a part of the system -‘a market fantasy’ (99) is revealed as a form of systemic hygiene, purging and lubricating an unfathomable machine. Indeed, for Cosmopolis the only action still outside the system is the ability to take one’s own life - though that too is sought by the cameras, and is considered ‘unoriginal’ , perhaps in an aesthetic sense, by Vija Kinski, his ‘chief of theory’, who seems to be speaking for the author in the following aestheticization of what once went by the name of political economy:
"But we have to give the word a little leeway. Adapt it to the current situation. Because money has taken a turn. All wealth has become wealth for its own sake. There's no other kind of enormous wealth. Money has lost its narrative quality the way painting did once upon a time. Money is talking to itself [...] And property follows of course. The concept of property is changing by the day, by the hour. The enormous expenditures that people make for land and houses and boats and planes. This has nothing to do with traditional self-assurances, okay. Property is no longer about power, personality and command. It's not about vulgar display or tasteful display. Because it no longer has weight or shape. The only thing that matters is the price you pay."
I just feel that DeLillo is usually better than this-- by reducing capitalism to some unknowably sublime process in which "money is talking to itself", he is taking the political out of political economy -- something that, post-2008, post-Picketty, is demonstrably false, however it seemed to reflect the zeitgeist of its time.
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I read this book when it was first published back in 2003. This time through it was book 13 in my “publication order re-read” of all things Delillo.
I had forgotten what a weird book Cosmopolis is!
You could build a strong argument to say the book is a dream sequence. It all happens during a single day and only takes just over 200 pages. A multi-billionaire, Eric Packer, decides to drive across New York in his stretch limo (fitted with priceless art and state-of-the-art technology) to get a haircut. Along the way he has sex four times with four different women, has four random meetings with his new wife, who is fabulously rich and beautiful (including once when they are both naked amongst several hundred naked bodies lying in the street as movie extras), encounters a burst water main and then a huge anti-capitalism demonstration that includes a self-immolation, and is consistently stalked by a potential assassin. Oh, and he is worried because he seems to sometimes react to things just before they actually happen.
This is a dream, right? Or a nightmare. The protester who sets fire to himself seems to be an image of Packer’s own purpose in the book to destroy himself. He is borrowing unbelievable amounts of yen at huge costs in the belief that the yen cannot go higher on the currency markets and increase his costs further. But it keeps on rising. And he keeps on borrowing. He seeks out experiences that will make him feel alive by bringing him close to death (at one point he asks one of his security guards to taser him).
The book is distilled Delillo, I think. It addresses the key themes that Delillo is known for (crowds, technology, American life etc.). It is heavy with the dialogue that characterises Delillo’s books and that is unlike the dialogue in anyone else’s books.
I went into this books with vague memories of having read it 18 years ago and with vague memories of watching the movie version. I was aware as I started it that it is, in general, slated in the press reviews and considered one of Delillo’s weaker efforts.
I have to say I really liked it on this second reading. This was Delillo’s first novel post-9/11 and you have to think that a man who has spent his life writing about American life can’t ignore that in the next book he produces. But the truth is that Delillo had largely foreshadowed something like 9/11 in his earlier works. And here the references are slight and subtle (New York high rise buildings are referred to "the last tall things, made empty, designed to hasten the future", for example, and the typical American is described as getting their global political awareness from the immigrant taxi drivers). It’s quiet about this, and the better for it, I think.
I’m surprised by the poor reception this book received and by the generally poor reader reviews on Goodreads. I found it a fascinating read. I think I might have to re-watch the movie while the book is fresh in my mind.
UPDATE: I re-watched the movie the next day and it's pretty true to the book apart from a significant structural change (no cut away from Packer) and a couple of things missed out. Most of the dialogue is lifted directly from the book as far as I could tell.
I had forgotten what a weird book Cosmopolis is!
You could build a strong argument to say the book is a dream sequence. It all happens during a single day and only takes just over 200 pages. A multi-billionaire, Eric Packer, decides to drive across New York in his stretch limo (fitted with priceless art and state-of-the-art technology) to get a haircut. Along the way he has sex four times with four different women, has four random meetings with his new wife, who is fabulously rich and beautiful (including once when they are both naked amongst several hundred naked bodies lying in the street as movie extras), encounters a burst water main and then a huge anti-capitalism demonstration that includes a self-immolation, and is consistently stalked by a potential assassin. Oh, and he is worried because he seems to sometimes react to things just before they actually happen.
This is a dream, right? Or a nightmare. The protester who sets fire to himself seems to be an image of Packer’s own purpose in the book to destroy himself. He is borrowing unbelievable amounts of yen at huge costs in the belief that the yen cannot go higher on the currency markets and increase his costs further. But it keeps on rising. And he keeps on borrowing. He seeks out experiences that will make him feel alive by bringing him close to death (at one point he asks one of his security guards to taser him).
The book is distilled Delillo, I think. It addresses the key themes that Delillo is known for (crowds, technology, American life etc.). It is heavy with the dialogue that characterises Delillo’s books and that is unlike the dialogue in anyone else’s books.
I went into this books with vague memories of having read it 18 years ago and with vague memories of watching the movie version. I was aware as I started it that it is, in general, slated in the press reviews and considered one of Delillo’s weaker efforts.
I have to say I really liked it on this second reading. This was Delillo’s first novel post-9/11 and you have to think that a man who has spent his life writing about American life can’t ignore that in the next book he produces. But the truth is that Delillo had largely foreshadowed something like 9/11 in his earlier works. And here the references are slight and subtle (New York high rise buildings are referred to "the last tall things, made empty, designed to hasten the future", for example, and the typical American is described as getting their global political awareness from the immigrant taxi drivers). It’s quiet about this, and the better for it, I think.
I’m surprised by the poor reception this book received and by the generally poor reader reviews on Goodreads. I found it a fascinating read. I think I might have to re-watch the movie while the book is fresh in my mind.
UPDATE: I re-watched the movie the next day and it's pretty true to the book apart from a significant structural change (no cut away from Packer) and a couple of things missed out. Most of the dialogue is lifted directly from the book as far as I could tell.
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Mentre fuori imperversa la protesta e lo spettro del capitalismo «si aggira per il mondo», la limousine di Eric Packer attraversa lentamente le strade di New York.
Il protagonista del quattordicesimo romanzo di Don DeLillo è un giovane ultramiliardario guru della finanza «che fa della virtualità delle sue azioni sui mercati la sua arma di vittoria nel mondo reale» (Pietro Masciullo). La sua anti-odissea giornaliera nasce da un istinto, da un bisogno primario (il taglio di capelli) e finisce irrimediabilmente con la propria autodistruzione: un incubo o, per meglio dire, uno spettro omicida incombe sul boss della Packer Capital.
Cosmopolis è un racconto dalle valenze universali, un microcosmo che permette a DeLillo di inquadrare i ‘cortocircuiti indentitari’ della nostra contemporaneità. Proprio come la protesta, che si rivelerà solo una dimostrazione della «forza innovativa della cultura di mercato», anche Eric Packer, figlio e oggetto del capitalismo più sfrenato, «pare aver perduto ogni capacità di agire sul reale in maniera empirica» (Giuseppe Genna). Lo sguardo è costantemente filtrato da uno schermo e anche gli avvenimenti più vicini sembrano assumere il loro valore solo se digitalizzati e trasmessi: «In TV aveva più senso».
L'azione del protagonista, dunque, è totalmente neutralizzata, in favore di un'osservazione passiva (l'illusione della caduta dello yen) e di una comunicazione incessante con gli altri personaggi del racconto (i brevi meeting a bordo della limousine).
In un mondo in cui tutto viene ‘mediato’ e duplicato, all’identità dell’uomo in costante movimento si affianca necessariamente quella del suo specchio, del doppio che reclama il proprio spazio, anche a costo di commettere l'omicidio: «Ma come posso vivere se lui non è morto?». Ed è proprio nell'icontro/scontro di queste due anime che, per citare un'ultima volta Masciullo, «l'anima sottilmente sentimentale del vecchio DeLillo torna a risplendere», donando a questo breve ma intenso romanzo la sua degna e tragica conclusione.
Il protagonista del quattordicesimo romanzo di Don DeLillo è un giovane ultramiliardario guru della finanza «che fa della virtualità delle sue azioni sui mercati la sua arma di vittoria nel mondo reale» (Pietro Masciullo). La sua anti-odissea giornaliera nasce da un istinto, da un bisogno primario (il taglio di capelli) e finisce irrimediabilmente con la propria autodistruzione: un incubo o, per meglio dire, uno spettro omicida incombe sul boss della Packer Capital.
Cosmopolis è un racconto dalle valenze universali, un microcosmo che permette a DeLillo di inquadrare i ‘cortocircuiti indentitari’ della nostra contemporaneità. Proprio come la protesta, che si rivelerà solo una dimostrazione della «forza innovativa della cultura di mercato», anche Eric Packer, figlio e oggetto del capitalismo più sfrenato, «pare aver perduto ogni capacità di agire sul reale in maniera empirica» (Giuseppe Genna). Lo sguardo è costantemente filtrato da uno schermo e anche gli avvenimenti più vicini sembrano assumere il loro valore solo se digitalizzati e trasmessi: «In TV aveva più senso».
L'azione del protagonista, dunque, è totalmente neutralizzata, in favore di un'osservazione passiva (l'illusione della caduta dello yen) e di una comunicazione incessante con gli altri personaggi del racconto (i brevi meeting a bordo della limousine).
In un mondo in cui tutto viene ‘mediato’ e duplicato, all’identità dell’uomo in costante movimento si affianca necessariamente quella del suo specchio, del doppio che reclama il proprio spazio, anche a costo di commettere l'omicidio: «Ma come posso vivere se lui non è morto?». Ed è proprio nell'icontro/scontro di queste due anime che, per citare un'ultima volta Masciullo, «l'anima sottilmente sentimentale del vecchio DeLillo torna a risplendere», donando a questo breve ma intenso romanzo la sua degna e tragica conclusione.
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The Problem of Language:
“It was a matter of silences, not words.”
There are those who indict DeLillo on charges of criminal literary laziness, but I would submit that actually, what he possesses is an immense understanding of the limitations inherent in language as a mode of expression, and while perhaps superficially a little ironic, I would also submit that it is a crucial thing on which to have a grasp, as a practitioner of the written word. As evidenced by the overall pithiness, refusal to go into territory that would most likely be discussed at a quantum mystics’ board meeting (do they have board meetings?), and more specifically, the seemingly insignificant (and infantile?) inquiries into linguistics and etymology, he displays his… (hold on, let me grab my thesaurus)… perspicacity, not simple-mindedness, in these fields.
Our assigned protagonist, Er(obert)ic Packer(son), compulsively dwells on meanings of words. Here he “pokes a note to himself about the anachronistic quality of the word skyscraper”, and here asks his currency analyst, Michael Chin “Why do we still have airports? Why are they called airports?”, to which Michael esoterically replies, “I know I can’t answer these questions without losing your respect”, which makes sense in that inexplicable kind of way.
Perhaps what I am trying to do, if I may provide some context from the past, is defend the Hemingway tradition (not that DeLillo's prose bears much resemblance to Papa's) against the likes of Faulkner, who shunned the former for not requiring his readers to keep a dictionary within arm’s reach, but it’s also something more. I am not merely, or even necessarily, saying that the easiest way to say something is the best way (a literary Occam’s Razor) but that some things can truly be so personal, harrowing, or bizarre, as to postulate nothing more than that most basic, one-word question, for which even speechless animals know, a head-tilt would suffice. DeLillo knows how to deal with complex issues using sparse, poetic language.
A man needs a haircut (except this reviewer whose thick, luscious locks are of Samsonian strength and significance), and travels a stretch of road to encounter various obstacles of violence, rioting, and perversion.
Poetry Without Inference:
Our cosmic wonder is no mystical thing, and with consciousness fleeting it is no wonder to desire that it be “saved from the void”. The accumulated matter which we refer to as ourselves had its origins in stars that we have never seen, and when it flows free once again, we will likewise not bear witness to our former compositions’ many destinies. No, not dust in the wind Kerry Livgren and Native American poets, but dust in the vast quantum chasm.
Or, is the horror of immortality a cyclical event? In what time of space do we, strictly speaking, even exist? Don’t ask yourself these questions as you read them. It will only make you hate me.
Just for Fun…?
Here is Brutha Fez (who is obviously DeLillo’s literary alter ego) laying down some fresh rhymes:
n
“It was a matter of silences, not words.”
There are those who indict DeLillo on charges of criminal literary laziness, but I would submit that actually, what he possesses is an immense understanding of the limitations inherent in language as a mode of expression, and while perhaps superficially a little ironic, I would also submit that it is a crucial thing on which to have a grasp, as a practitioner of the written word. As evidenced by the overall pithiness, refusal to go into territory that would most likely be discussed at a quantum mystics’ board meeting (do they have board meetings?), and more specifically, the seemingly insignificant (and infantile?) inquiries into linguistics and etymology, he displays his… (hold on, let me grab my thesaurus)… perspicacity, not simple-mindedness, in these fields.
Our assigned protagonist, Er(obert)ic Packer(son), compulsively dwells on meanings of words. Here he “pokes a note to himself about the anachronistic quality of the word skyscraper”, and here asks his currency analyst, Michael Chin “Why do we still have airports? Why are they called airports?”, to which Michael esoterically replies, “I know I can’t answer these questions without losing your respect”, which makes sense in that inexplicable kind of way.
Perhaps what I am trying to do, if I may provide some context from the past, is defend the Hemingway tradition (not that DeLillo's prose bears much resemblance to Papa's) against the likes of Faulkner, who shunned the former for not requiring his readers to keep a dictionary within arm’s reach, but it’s also something more. I am not merely, or even necessarily, saying that the easiest way to say something is the best way (a literary Occam’s Razor) but that some things can truly be so personal, harrowing, or bizarre, as to postulate nothing more than that most basic, one-word question, for which even speechless animals know, a head-tilt would suffice. DeLillo knows how to deal with complex issues using sparse, poetic language.
A man needs a haircut (except this reviewer whose thick, luscious locks are of Samsonian strength and significance), and travels a stretch of road to encounter various obstacles of violence, rioting, and perversion.
Poetry Without Inference:
Our cosmic wonder is no mystical thing, and with consciousness fleeting it is no wonder to desire that it be “saved from the void”. The accumulated matter which we refer to as ourselves had its origins in stars that we have never seen, and when it flows free once again, we will likewise not bear witness to our former compositions’ many destinies. No, not dust in the wind Kerry Livgren and Native American poets, but dust in the vast quantum chasm.
Or, is the horror of immortality a cyclical event? In what time of space do we, strictly speaking, even exist? Don’t ask yourself these questions as you read them. It will only make you hate me.
Just for Fun…?
Here is Brutha Fez (who is obviously DeLillo’s literary alter ego) laying down some fresh rhymes:
n
Kid used to think he was wise to the systemn
Prince of the street always do things his way
But he had a case of conventional wisdom
Never say nothing the others don’t say…
Man gave me the news in a slanted room
And it felt like a sliver of icy truth
Felt my sad-ass soul flying out of my mouth
My gold tooth splitting down to the root
Let me be who I was
Unrhymed fool
That’s lost but living.
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After struggling through Cosmopolis: A Novel by Don DeLillo for over a year, I am very happy to report that I’ve finished reading it. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. Okay, that’s a lie. I know exactly how I feel; I’m just too nice to say it.
Now, I admit that I only read this book because Robert Pattinson is in the movie version, which is coming out later this year. And I really don’t care that I thought it was kind of terrible, because as long as I have an excuse to sit in a theater for a couple hours and stare at him in a role other than a pasty vampire who does (or does not as the case may sometimes be) sparkle, my inner fangirl will be happy.
In all honestly, though, the upcoming movie is not the reason I finished the book. After all, I only got two chapters in to Bel Ami, another book-to-movie adaptation coming out this year that Pattinson stars in, before I called it quits. So then why did I keep reading? you ask. Well, because I was fairly positive at some point there would be an eye-opening “Oh, now I get it!” moment and the entire novel would become clear to me. Yeah, that didn’t really happen.
At all.
I scratched my head until the very end. And when it was over, I’m pretty sure I gasped out a “Huh?” as I was busting my ass on the stair machine. I just . . . I don’t know. I don’t even have words for this book. It made about as much sense as the dreams I have on any given night. How they made it into a movie, I can’t even imagine. Aside from not making sense, it’s all very stream of consciousness. There’s a lot of thinking (weird thinking), and the sparse dialog that exists read very choppy and unnatural to me. It was also a struggle to figure out who was talking at times. I want to believe it’s because I had a janky electronic copy and the paragraphs got messed up and dialog tags went missing, but something tells me that’s not the case.
There is, however, a positive side to having read the book: I won’t walk out of the theater thinking what the f*** just happened? Also, I’ll be prepared for the WTF scenes, like the rectal exam and the water bottle. And the ending. This is one of those rare cases where I don’t think the book will help the movie make sense, but at least I can go into it knowing that I’m not going to understand anything, and I can put more effort into ogling The Pretty.
Someone on Twitter said they saw the trailer and were left completely confused. I replied by saying I read the book and I’m just as confused.
Now, I admit that I only read this book because Robert Pattinson is in the movie version, which is coming out later this year. And I really don’t care that I thought it was kind of terrible, because as long as I have an excuse to sit in a theater for a couple hours and stare at him in a role other than a pasty vampire who does (or does not as the case may sometimes be) sparkle, my inner fangirl will be happy.
In all honestly, though, the upcoming movie is not the reason I finished the book. After all, I only got two chapters in to Bel Ami, another book-to-movie adaptation coming out this year that Pattinson stars in, before I called it quits. So then why did I keep reading? you ask. Well, because I was fairly positive at some point there would be an eye-opening “Oh, now I get it!” moment and the entire novel would become clear to me. Yeah, that didn’t really happen.
At all.
I scratched my head until the very end. And when it was over, I’m pretty sure I gasped out a “Huh?” as I was busting my ass on the stair machine. I just . . . I don’t know. I don’t even have words for this book. It made about as much sense as the dreams I have on any given night. How they made it into a movie, I can’t even imagine. Aside from not making sense, it’s all very stream of consciousness. There’s a lot of thinking (weird thinking), and the sparse dialog that exists read very choppy and unnatural to me. It was also a struggle to figure out who was talking at times. I want to believe it’s because I had a janky electronic copy and the paragraphs got messed up and dialog tags went missing, but something tells me that’s not the case.
There is, however, a positive side to having read the book: I won’t walk out of the theater thinking what the f*** just happened? Also, I’ll be prepared for the WTF scenes, like the rectal exam and the water bottle. And the ending. This is one of those rare cases where I don’t think the book will help the movie make sense, but at least I can go into it knowing that I’m not going to understand anything, and I can put more effort into ogling The Pretty.
Someone on Twitter said they saw the trailer and were left completely confused. I replied by saying I read the book and I’m just as confused.
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At first, I almost thought of reading a novel of anticipation. In an environment that is corrupt and governed by profit, an unsympathetic character without any human feeling consults countless screens to analyze and decipher the world. Eric Packer has it all, yet his life is empty! It is no longer part of the real world. It belongs to an electronic future as Holden Caulfield in The Catcher wonders where the Central Park ducks spend the winter and the hero of Cosmopolis wonders where the white limousines spend the night. Quite a symbol! But one day, Packer leaves his glass tower to have his hair cut in his childhood neighborhood. He climbs aboard his ultra-modern armored car and decides to drive through New York. From that moment, Eric switches to real life - Misery, violence, death, filth, and others. It becomes lively and denser, but this will cause its fall. Awareness of suicide? I do not know. In any case, this novel is impressive. In large part thanks to his punchy style. Even if I sometimes felt a little lost in this strange journey, to the point of not always understanding where the author was coming from, I remained seduced by Cosmopolis.
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There are dead stars that still shine because their light is trapped in time. Where do I stand in this light, which does not strictly exist?
- - - - - -
He’d always wanted to be quantum dust, transcending his body mass, the soft tissue over bones. The idea was to live outside the given limits, in a chip, on a disk, as data, in whirl, in radiant spin, a consciousness saved from the void.
- - - - - -
This is not the end. He is dead inside the crystal of his watch but still alive in original space, waiting for the shot to sound.
- - - - - -
He’d always wanted to be quantum dust, transcending his body mass, the soft tissue over bones. The idea was to live outside the given limits, in a chip, on a disk, as data, in whirl, in radiant spin, a consciousness saved from the void.
- - - - - -
This is not the end. He is dead inside the crystal of his watch but still alive in original space, waiting for the shot to sound.
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It's a weird and complicated novel. Absolutely not something I would normally read. It reminds me of the literary books I had to read for my High school graduation exams. So why torture myself and read it?
Well, in May 2011 David Cronenberg will start filming the movie based on this novel that will be released somewhere in 2012. The very talented Robert Pattinson (who I adore) will play the role of Eric Packer, a newly wed financial wizard and billionaire, who drives through town (New York) in his limo to get a haircut.
I think the part of Eric, who is pretty (excuse me for the language) f*cked up, will be very challenging for Rob. There are some scenes I'm really looking forward to see on the big screen and some saucy lines I'm really looking forward to hear coming from Rob's mouth.
Eric is like this multi-billionaire genius prince who lives isolated in his ivory tower and owns a white horse (limo). He seems to have everything, but yet he has nothing. He's bored, there is no challenge, no satisfaction, he's totally disconnected from the outside world (no friends, doesn't look people in the face/eyes, doesn't know/recognize his own wife), he has a medical condition that frightens him and he doesn't know what to do anymore. He wants to break free, to live, before he dies. He's ready to take the plunge which is pretty courageous for a control-freak like Eric and he wants to do it perfect.
During his limo ride through New York, he tries to connect to the world and 'his' women, he removes all obstacles, gets rid of everything until he's stripped and is ready to face... the end.
I would be lying if I say that I understand everything that's written in this book, because I don't. It's very poetic, the story has many layers, is confusing, crazy, weird and absolutely no easy read. I always take things too literally and that's why I have problems reading books like this one, but I'm still talking with others about this book and every day I discover new things. I didn't expect it, but I think it's a really interesting story and different from everything else I have ever read. My experience is that the more times you read it the more interesting it becomes.
I admit if it wasn't for Rob, I would have never read it, but I'm glad I did. I think you have to see this book (and the movie) as a piece of art, you think about it, you talk about it, you admire it (or not) and never fully understand what's it all about and that's totally fine.
For the people that are interested in the movie and need help understanding the book should pay a visit to:
http://cosmopolisfilm.com/
Well, in May 2011 David Cronenberg will start filming the movie based on this novel that will be released somewhere in 2012. The very talented Robert Pattinson (who I adore) will play the role of Eric Packer, a newly wed financial wizard and billionaire, who drives through town (New York) in his limo to get a haircut.
I think the part of Eric, who is pretty (excuse me for the language) f*cked up, will be very challenging for Rob. There are some scenes I'm really looking forward to see on the big screen and some saucy lines I'm really looking forward to hear coming from Rob's mouth.
Eric is like this multi-billionaire genius prince who lives isolated in his ivory tower and owns a white horse (limo). He seems to have everything, but yet he has nothing. He's bored, there is no challenge, no satisfaction, he's totally disconnected from the outside world (no friends, doesn't look people in the face/eyes, doesn't know/recognize his own wife), he has a medical condition that frightens him and he doesn't know what to do anymore. He wants to break free, to live, before he dies. He's ready to take the plunge which is pretty courageous for a control-freak like Eric and he wants to do it perfect.
During his limo ride through New York, he tries to connect to the world and 'his' women, he removes all obstacles, gets rid of everything until he's stripped and is ready to face... the end.
I would be lying if I say that I understand everything that's written in this book, because I don't. It's very poetic, the story has many layers, is confusing, crazy, weird and absolutely no easy read. I always take things too literally and that's why I have problems reading books like this one, but I'm still talking with others about this book and every day I discover new things. I didn't expect it, but I think it's a really interesting story and different from everything else I have ever read. My experience is that the more times you read it the more interesting it becomes.
I admit if it wasn't for Rob, I would have never read it, but I'm glad I did. I think you have to see this book (and the movie) as a piece of art, you think about it, you talk about it, you admire it (or not) and never fully understand what's it all about and that's totally fine.
For the people that are interested in the movie and need help understanding the book should pay a visit to:
http://cosmopolisfilm.com/
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Don DeLillo writes about the relentless violence of surfaces and information, but unlike American Psycho, "Cosmopolis" hardly offers any comic relief (except for the pastry assassin, he's hilarious). Mostly set in the claustrophobic environment of a luxurious limo, we accompany our protagonist Eric Packer for one day as he roams New York City in his rolling office full of screens, repeatedly consulted by some of the specialists his venture capital operation employs (yes, at the beginning, he states that his aim is to get a hair cut, but it's very obvious that this is not actually his mission). 28-year-old multi-billionaire Eric has recently married a European heiress because, well, it made sense from an pragmatic angle and image-wise, and his wife is crossing his path multiple times, seemingly out of nowhere, like a ghost - and she is not the only bloodless, ephemeral character: In fact, the text contains multiple hints that Eric is some kind of zombie or even a vampire (which prompted David Cronenberg to give the role of Eric to professional vampire impersonator Robert Pattinson in the movie version of "Cosmopolis").
Eric's adventures in and outside the limo occupy the whole day: The President is in town and they are constantly stuck in traffic, the limo gets attacked in an anti-capitalist riot (foreshadowing Occupy Wall Street, which hadn't happened when the novel was first published in 2003), Eric gets caught up in the funeral procession of a sufi rap star and the making of an art film, he visits his lover and has sex with his bodyguard, his doctor does a check up on his prostate while he is holding a meeting in the limo (yup), etc. pp. - and the whole time, he is hunted by a dubious man and speculates on the yen, because/although he knows he can't win. It's the odyssey of a hero who has achieved the American Dream and feels nothing. Eric, as it quickly turns out, is on a mission to self-destruct - but can a vampire die (again)?
In this novel, art has become abstract, pointing to nothing (the Rothko Chapel is an important cipher), and information has become spectacle, equally unreadable. Surface and symmetry are Eric's downfall - but has he ever been striving for balance, as one character claims? This novel is interesting because of the numerous little ideas and intricate opinions that are presented and that make the reader ponder what to make of them. It's a puzzle that never tells you whether the image of Eric you created is utterly correct. In the end, Eric tries to be abstract, unreadable and a spectacle himself, but there are clues that he - contradicting popular opinion - is a person who suffers as well.
A haunting, dialogue-heavy book that needs to be devoured slowly in order to fully absorb its vibrating, dark energy. Almost every page contains at least one sentence that deserves to be pondered and discussed - great stuff.
You can learn more about the novel on the podcast (in German).
Eric's adventures in and outside the limo occupy the whole day: The President is in town and they are constantly stuck in traffic, the limo gets attacked in an anti-capitalist riot (foreshadowing Occupy Wall Street, which hadn't happened when the novel was first published in 2003), Eric gets caught up in the funeral procession of a sufi rap star and the making of an art film, he visits his lover and has sex with his bodyguard, his doctor does a check up on his prostate while he is holding a meeting in the limo (yup), etc. pp. - and the whole time, he is hunted by a dubious man and speculates on the yen, because/although he knows he can't win. It's the odyssey of a hero who has achieved the American Dream and feels nothing. Eric, as it quickly turns out, is on a mission to self-destruct - but can a vampire die (again)?
In this novel, art has become abstract, pointing to nothing (the Rothko Chapel is an important cipher), and information has become spectacle, equally unreadable. Surface and symmetry are Eric's downfall - but has he ever been striving for balance, as one character claims? This novel is interesting because of the numerous little ideas and intricate opinions that are presented and that make the reader ponder what to make of them. It's a puzzle that never tells you whether the image of Eric you created is utterly correct. In the end, Eric tries to be abstract, unreadable and a spectacle himself, but there are clues that he - contradicting popular opinion - is a person who suffers as well.
A haunting, dialogue-heavy book that needs to be devoured slowly in order to fully absorb its vibrating, dark energy. Almost every page contains at least one sentence that deserves to be pondered and discussed - great stuff.
You can learn more about the novel on the podcast (in German).
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