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.