05/31/2026
Never having been much a fan of the idea of these presumptive "best of" lists that roll out every so often, I hadn't looked at the recent Guardian 100 Greatest Novels iteration, mostly owing to that indifference & the suspicion it'd be a fairly unexciting, sexless, exsanguinated affair - which turns out to be true, of course, I feel like I've spent two hours examining varieties of beige paint samples.
Whatta thoroughly dull experience, one which hides the quirks, dazzling brilliance, idiosyncrasies, mindbombs & challenges in literature. Rather than act aghast at x-amount of omissions (though extremely surprised Tommy Ruggles, Gaddis, O'Connor, Kesey & myriad, many more ain't on there), I'd prefer to just say hey, where'n the f*ck is the DeLillo, folks?
Even understanding that these are meant to be digestible, unobtrusive fluff pieces designed for "general readership" or whatever (or calling a novella - The Metamorphosis - a novel) & that these kinds of endeavors consider the endorsement of anything lightly "experimental" a high-risk endeavor, it's a touch shocking that ole Uncle Don isn't represented by White Noise, Libra, Mao II or this lovely brick, Underworld.
Having spent the last 2 months either rereading or doing first reads of DeLillo's ouevre (at 10 books right now & I don't want it to end), it's startling how close he's sensed the currents of this country in his time writing, & that stretch from The Names to (I'd argue) Cosmopolis is frankly unparalleled in terms of a "hit" streak. On a sentence by sentence basis, in the back-half of the 20th century, there's a small room where DeLillo, Joy Williams & William Gass are alone, hopefully not staring at beige-painted walls.
With Underworld, lemme tell ya, you can do worse things this spring than deliquesce into this masterful, exhausting testament of what fiction can do, when it's being done by a master of the form.
Alright, the "yelling at clouds" portion of the day has ended.
Read some Don.
Peace.