DeLillo’s last book, Underworld, was one of those seasonal doorstops that the cognoscenti gets in a lather about—you know, the 800-page tome that everyone talks about and no one reads, the one that ends up atop a growing column of hardcovers in the basement, the last addition to which was Pynchon’s Mason & Dixon, or perhaps Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. Well, DeLillo had it coming—it’d been 20 years since his seminal novel White Noise came out, establishing him as an important voice in the world of white guys ruminating on technology and its discontents. He’s essentially been writing the same book, more mood than plot, ever since then—and every time, we love it. This novel is about a 20-something dot-com millionaire trying to make his way across Manhattan in his limo. Angst ensues.
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