This is a strange book. Valuable truths and insights. Existentialism before plot. Pregnant sentences before plot. Of course, you don’t read Don DeLillo necessarily for plot, do you? Not to say there is no plot. You read him because he is a master of the craft, his sentences are whispers in your ear. In your heart. This is how good novels are supposed to be. With enough room for interpretation. Like a poem about recluse writers who don’t want to publish anymore, terrorists weary of Western influence, Mao Zedong from guerrilla wilderness tactics to complete, uniform revolution free of outside voices. Faces lost in the crowd, in the multitude. Echoes from that Beatles song, pop hiss of analog sound. Pictures of Chairman Mao. What would Andy Warhol say?
–Gregory Frye, February 2012