‘Behind me, his bedroom light went out, brightening the sky, and how queer it seemed, half the heavens coming nearer, all those incandescent masses increasing in number, the stars and constellations, because somebody turns off a light in a house in the desert.’

An ambitious book that misses the mark. Delillo’s prose is beautiful and choking, the whole time I felt claustrophobic despite the vast and expansive landscape in which this piece is set. Something about the tumbling, almost stream of consciousness style of writing gave this text a sense of true urgency. And yet, it feels like the story itself and the manner in which it’s written don’t align. Throughout, I felt caught up in Delillo’s prose, and yet... nothing really happens, there is no payoff, it lacks substance.

Perhaps this book is supposed to be consumed on a thematic, symbolic level. And perhaps I will have to revisit this/ properly analyse it to find the beauty in it, or to find what it is that Delillo is pointing to in all of this flowing prose. I’m not sure I will though, so maybe this book will always remain a mystery to me.