Underworld

I believe it was a recent NYT article that insisted Underworld was Don DeLillo's masterpiece.  Since I vaguely remembered enjoying White Noise, I thought I would give it a try.  Unfortunately, at 800 pages it felt to me too sprawling and overlong to really fall in love with.  However, there are lots of things to like about the novel.  The writing alone kept me from ever putting it down.  Mid-career DeLillo seems to be completely in command of his craft; at some points the writing is so dense with overlapping voices and textures that it feels almost woven.  The plot too has so many threads and characters that intersect in various ways that, when you don't feel smothered by attempting to reassemble the plan of all this complexity, you can always let yourself drift from one splendidly drawn detail to the next.  There are even certain moments of sublime beauty that will stick with me -- the painting on the B-52s, the climax with George the waiter.  But in many ways I thought the book was a bit ... indulgent, a bit nostalgic and autobiographical in a way reminiscent of Ada.  After a while it becomes like eating too much candy at once.  Or like idly reflecting on the unity, or lack thereof, in our our own lives.  Certainly, there are worse things that indulging the nostalgic daydreams of an aging great writer.  But, then again, perhaps there are better things. 

A Canticle For Leibowitz

Walter M. Miller's retro sci-fi apocalypse arrived in the mail as a birthday gift apparently designed to remind me of my mortality (thanks EA!).  While I don't want to spoil it by giving too much away, I think it's fine to say that it tells the story of how all things pass away from a deeply Catholic perspective -- roughly speaking, the endless cyclic instability of the world is laid at the doorstep of original sin.  That said, one hardly needs to be a Catholic to read or enjoy the book (though some knowledge of Latin would have helped).  It's a well told story with a number of surprising twists that, despite its clear message, does not browbeat the reader like a pedantic allegory.  In fact, in the end, there is even a profoundly weird and rather subversive ray of hope for 'humanity'.  Just don't pick it up with the expectation of feeling comforted about turning 50.