It's already been a while now since the new novel by American Master Don DeLillo, “Falling Man”, has been published by Scribner, and naturally reading it instantly was all but compulsory, a privilege. I have taken my time with it, thinking about the work's content and import, the writing as such. Yet still, I haven't been able to make up my mind in all clarity about this one, not to any satisfactory degree. So for the time being I'll give you what half-digested thoughts and impressions this very touching piece of literature has left me with so far. And much of what is there is open for future revision and added insights, will remain so for quite some time, I guess.
First findings:
Lianne and Keith, to me they are like two distinct bodies hit by something hard on that day, September 11th of 2001. Depending on their differing matter density and inner structure, their sense and understanding of self, their life disposition, the effect varies greatly: the softer one will be rocked to the core and her very foundation, and although her days may reverberate from many aftershocks for quite a while, the impact will eventually be absorbed. Whereas the less flexible, manly entity may very well be shattered by it and find himself irreversibly damaged for life. Strange to me in this context the following observation: that oftentimes DeLillo's invented characters are so bottom-line representative of something larger, a more encompassing type, I can hardly remember them by their names.
All in all “Falling Man” is written with a deceptive beauty, which even for a DeLillo novel is well worth mentioning as one of the most integral virtues this book is distinguished by, placing it in the context of his entire oeuvre somewhere between “Underworld” and “The Body Artist” - though it doesn't reach either one of these in terms of general literary achievement, I reckon. His language is undoubtedly unparalleled by anyone writing in English today and at times treats you to a staccato of enlightenment that is simply breathtaking and affords you to sit back, let the words sink in with their resounding voice – and re-read the whole passage.
The kind of detailed, almost spectral observations you encounter in the text can be gripping like little else DeLillo has produced so far, and they are affecting and deeply human. Dialogue is terse, charged with sound more real than any copy (“simulacrum”) of the real that you can find with any other writer. And this, too, has long since become a trademark of his, which he is widely, and rightfully recognized for. What's more, is the fact that with “Falling Man” all its binding power lies with exactly this, the astounding quality and precision of its lyrical prose. Structure for once seems a marginal component. To me the book is rather a listening into the protagonists and the times and their unease, as opposed to a spelling out what was and became of it. Fascinating to see how it evokes a distinct atmosphere that was really, ominously felt six years ago, even here, in Europe. It is literally as close to the event as you can possibly get, and yet, at the same time, it also features an inbuilt distance, an abstraction or overriding awareness if you will, like bruised skin healing.
But this is also the point where any serious reviewer shouldn't fail to acknowledge the fact that he hasn't gotten away from the text yet, something I shall hereby admit to, and freely. Other than that however, I insist that “Falling Man” is indeed a great piece of writing – I wouldn't call it a masterpiece; not by DeLillo's standards that is. It is good to see how this author who has already profoundly taken root in our reading public's collective mind, who has long ago established himself as a towering figure in contemporary literature and is a guiding influence to so many younger generation writers, how somebody that “established” doesn't shy away from challenging himself in his capacity and authority as a chronicler of his age and its conditions just so uncompromisingly: by taking on fully a topic, a motif, 9/11, which like no other bared one naked truth lying at the heart and centre of his writing. This is a daring endeavor and inspires a lot of respect, just as it reinforces the necessity to face up to the more hurtful instances of life – by writing about them, by telling them out, in a sense. To which ongoing process this one by all accounts clearly is a valid contribution.
Though I have my difficulties determining just how good “Falling Man” really is, I truly think it high time for Mr. DeLillo to be awarded the Nobel Prize finally this year. So, we're in for some waiting for that phone call from Sweden I'd say, and let it be for “Underworld” or his life's contribution to the art of Literature!
I'm not quite finished with this book, I feel, I will have to think about it some more. Meanwhile I'd be happy to get further clues from you, further insights and opinions, OK? And in case you haven't gotten your copy yet: the ideal opportunity to make up for this comes right here (hier).
(pic©Scribner)
