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44 of 52 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Corpses Wired For Sound, September 4, 2001
The felt power of DeLillo's prose, the bass of the storm, the intensely concentrated recognition-scenes in the corridors of Third World terror, the null domains of Manhattan and Beirut, two cities ravaged by their own modes of iniquity, blight, and cultural devastation, from the faux-iconic pop-artifacts of Warhol's Factory to the scorched earth policies of Middle East cabals. *Mao II* has, strangely, been shuffled aside in the DeLillo corpus, treated as an aberration, a minor work, an off-day, an ill-advised experiment. As in *The Body Artist*, the author seems especially to have written it for himself -- like his writer-surrogate Bill Gray, aloof in his tightly-caulked safehouse, gnarled, diehard, a true artist experimenting till the end, perceiving it all anew.And DeLillo is an expert spectator. He knows how to jumpstart the reader's eye with each sentence, record the synaptic dissonance of individuals at the edge of disquiet, in transitory spaces, in windows of departure, like a snooping harrier throwing its falcon-shadow onto the tower block, a soul built and weathered by the preceding century. And let's face it, *Mao II* is strange territory. The author is pushing hard to bridge the nighted gulf of Third World angst, analyze and dissolve the force-fed media fictions, the sound-bites and simulations, the BBC monotone, the petty moralizing. But throughout, his troubled and troubling characters hold it all together, headstrong, witty, brilliantly in thrall to the chemical lift of DeLillo's lyrical drug (the first 15 pages of this novel, describing a young woman's sojourn into the Sun Moon cult and her subsequent de-programming, is perhaps my favorite of all this author's writing). Chockfull of ambition and in full career, DeLillo narrates what is left for us to consider.... Somewhere between the plastic tautologies of a silkscreened Mao Zedong (c/o Andy Warhol) and the wakening streets of bomb-scarred Beirut, *Mao II* reads like a speculative op-ed piece on the secret life of Thomas Pynchon (who contributes a jacket blurb), but deepens in perspective to encompass the loneliness of all writers, playing games with themselves and their public, addicted to secrecy, manic with espionage, racked by self-doubt -- a vampire in excelsior -- feeling the old virtuosity slip away.... DeLillo's writer-protagonist, Bill Gray, hamstrung by a 20-year work-in-progress that he will never publish, finds himself seeking new paradigms in the hostage-trading black market of Middle East factionalism, in a last-ditch attempt to put his war-machine back on track. Confused? Just read the novel. But *Mao II* was also written in response to the Tom Clancys of the world, using Middle East terrorism as a backdrop for paramilitary potboilers, the suffering and confusion of endangered peoples set against the insipid "patriot games" of Harrison Ford as NATO super-sleuth. DeLillo provides a tactile photomural of the way things "really are," in the tortured banalities of the interrogation-room, the tainted business of shelling and skirmishes and kidnappings, the child-soldier in soccer jersey and face-mask, phasing into the distant Western mythologizing of these scurvy kill-holes.... The central objection to *Mao II* (and most of his early novels) turns on the issue of characterization. By themselves, in roving solitude, DeLillo's creatures are intense and fascinating, providing a unique and often riveting outlook on our dazed and pretzelled epoch. But once they start to congregate, to cluster in twos and threes, the dialogue becomes surreal, histrionic, and overwritten, top-heavy with artifice and authorial intervention. Suddenly these sparkling personalities become little more than flamboyant glove-puppets soliloquizing the author's rhythmic prose-poetry (read his play, *Valparaiso*, for an undistilled example of this). Rather than speak *to* each other, they seem to drift into parallel monologues, each telepathically prescient of what the other is saying, *becoming* each other, finishing each other's thoughts, paring down images and ideas like Socratic counterparts speaking via satellite. Now, granted, dialogue like this may *occasionally* transpire in real life, and since it is the novelist's job to *select* momentous vectors in the history of the world for perfection and representation, we might see fit to fold our hands and suspend our pedestrian disbelief, but.... BUT.... I feel underqualified to defend the author's willful, er, "plasticity" here. I recognize it, it makes me uncomfortably aware of the text qua text, but with the exception of his earlier work I'm not prepared to denounce it as frailty or weakness. Sure, the characters in *White Noise*, *Libra*, and *Mao II* are often elaborate cartoons, postmodern scribbles, jerry-rigged nonentities, but somehow the strength of these novels has never abated for me. The text still hits me hard. Either DeLillo has become bored with point-blank mimesis, or else is attempting a strange and benighted agon with the Platonic dialogue, giving us unreal (or superreal), abstract characters whose words spiral up into the fiber-optic acumen of the Zeitgeist. Bill, Scott, Karen, Brita, George, and the rest. Are they avatars of world-history or corpses wired for sound? Representative (wo)men or literary wallpaper? Concentrations of world-history or animatronic meat puppets? The text is out there -- the jury must decide for themselves.
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by Don Delillo
by Don Delillo
by Don Delillo
by Don Delillo
by Dennis Boutsikaris
