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frogwithlittlehammer 's review for:
Underworld
by Don DeLillo
challenging
reflective
slow-paced
God I would fing kill to have been a part of the late twentieth century honestly it makes me so woeful thinking about it.
Don Delillo and other post modernist writers, but especially Delillo, do a frighteningly excellent job of connecting history—from unseemingly consequential countercultural threads to shifts of a paradigmatic proportion—to the real everyday fear of individuals. Fear of obsolescence, media, death and aging, irrelevance, undesirability, unhappiness. Delillo does this in an unmistakably American lens which is both rarely done to my liking and what makes it so captivating to me.
Underworld takes the reader backwards in time, starting with baseball and ending with a couple keystrokes and a single word. The epic talks about nuclear destruction, ever presence of adultery, crises of faith, mundanity of murder, morality of filial expectations, reimaginations of Eisenstein, the fastidiousness of the ritual of recycling, debatable quality and substance of modernist art, the meditation of beading a sweater, and literally so much more. Although it got slow and random in the second half, the prose remained top notch and it’s the type of book that would prompt many enjoyable rereads.
Don Delillo and other post modernist writers, but especially Delillo, do a frighteningly excellent job of connecting history—from unseemingly consequential countercultural threads to shifts of a paradigmatic proportion—to the real everyday fear of individuals. Fear of obsolescence, media, death and aging, irrelevance, undesirability, unhappiness. Delillo does this in an unmistakably American lens which is both rarely done to my liking and what makes it so captivating to me.
Underworld takes the reader backwards in time, starting with baseball and ending with a couple keystrokes and a single word. The epic talks about nuclear destruction, ever presence of adultery, crises of faith, mundanity of murder, morality of filial expectations, reimaginations of Eisenstein, the fastidiousness of the ritual of recycling, debatable quality and substance of modernist art, the meditation of beading a sweater, and literally so much more. Although it got slow and random in the second half, the prose remained top notch and it’s the type of book that would prompt many enjoyable rereads.