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THE BODY ARTIST

A virtually perfect short novel, shimmering with in-held meaning, menace, and—oddly—a kind of reassurance.

This surpassingly eerie tale from the author of such contemporary classics as End Zone (1972), White Noise (1991), and Underworld (1997) artfully blends DeLillo’s characteristic themes of paranoia and disorientation with the allure of the old-fashioned ghost story.

The (literally) beleaguered protagonist is Lauren Hartke, a performance artist whose gift for conceiving and enacting aesthetically pleasing and meaningful poses overflows into her daily life (“She is always acting, always in the process of becoming another or exploring some root identity”). Following an opening (highly charged) breakfast-table conversation between Lauren and her husband, “dark” filmmaker Rey Robles, in the remote seaside house they’re renting, an obituary notice reports his suicide—and propels Lauren into a more intense (and, ironically, transformative) relationship with the empty, noise-filled home she refuses to leave. She finds a man living in an unused bedroom: a nameless shadow of a man who speaks in provocative incomplete sentences, repeating conversations she remembers, in both Rey’s voice and her own. Then, without warning, he disappears as inexplicably as he had appeared, having profoundly altered both Lauren’s art and her grip on reality. DeLillo deepens the enigma of this central action with several evocative images: a Japanese woman watering her garden; computer pictures of a lightly traveled highway in another country; birds gathering at an outdoor feeder (readers who remember Stephen King’s The Dark Half will half-understand what’s going on)—and in numerous limpid sentences that spell out the mingled seductiveness and terror of the everyday world Lauren moves in and out of (“ . . . a skein of geese passed silently over her shoulder, flying down the world into their secret night”). Is the riddling stranger who enters “her” house an avatar of her husband’s spirit passing from “reality”—or a harbinger of her own passing? Or both?

A virtually perfect short novel, shimmering with in-held meaning, menace, and—oddly—a kind of reassurance.

Pub Date: Feb. 6, 2001

ISBN: 0-7432-0395-X

Page Count: 128

Publisher: Scribner

Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Nov. 1, 2000

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THE SECRET HISTORY

The Brat Pack meets The Bacchae in this precious, way-too-long, and utterly unsuspenseful town-and-gown murder tale. A bunch of ever-so-mandarin college kids in a small Vermont school are the eager epigones of an aloof classics professor, and in their exclusivity and snobbishness and eagerness to please their teacher, they are moved to try to enact Dionysian frenzies in the woods. During the only one that actually comes off, a local farmer happens upon them—and they kill him. But the death isn't ruled a murder—and might never have been if one of the gang—a cadging sybarite named Bunny Corcoran—hadn't shown signs of cracking under the secret's weight. And so he too is dispatched. The narrator, a blank-slate Californian named Richard Pepen chronicles the coverup. But if you're thinking remorse-drama, conscience masque, or even semi-trashy who'll-break-first? page-turner, forget it: This is a straight gee-whiz, first-to-have-ever-noticed college novel—"Hampden College, as a body, was always strangely prone to hysteria. Whether from isolation, malice, or simple boredom, people there were far more credulous and excitable than educated people are generally thought to be, and this hermetic, overheated atmosphere made it a thriving black petri dish of melodrama and distortion." First-novelist Tartt goes muzzy when she has to describe human confrontations (the murder, or sex, or even the ping-ponging of fear), and is much more comfortable in transcribing aimless dorm-room paranoia or the TV shows that the malefactors anesthetize themselves with as fate ticks down. By telegraphing the murders, Tartt wants us to be continually horrified at these kids—while inviting us to semi-enjoy their manneristic fetishes and refined tastes. This ersatz-Fitzgerald mix of moralizing and mirror-looking (Jay McInerney shook and poured the shaker first) is very 80's—and in Tartt's strenuous version already seems dated, formulaic. Les Nerds du Mal—and about as deep (if not nearly as involving) as a TV movie.

Pub Date: Sept. 16, 1992

ISBN: 1400031702

Page Count: 592

Publisher: Knopf

Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010

Kirkus Reviews Issue: July 1, 1992

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THINGS FALL APART

This book sings with the terrible silence of dead civilizations in which once there was valor.

Written with quiet dignity that builds to a climax of tragic force, this book about the dissolution of an African tribe, its traditions, and values, represents a welcome departure from the familiar "Me, white brother" genre.

Written by a Nigerian African trained in missionary schools, this novel tells quietly the story of a brave man, Okonkwo, whose life has absolute validity in terms of his culture, and who exercises his prerogative as a warrior, father, and husband with unflinching single mindedness. But into the complex Nigerian village filters the teachings of strangers, teachings so alien to the tribe, that resistance is impossible. One must distinguish a force to be able to oppose it, and to most, the talk of Christian salvation is no more than the babbling of incoherent children. Still, with his guns and persistence, the white man, amoeba-like, gradually absorbs the native culture and in despair, Okonkwo, unable to withstand the corrosion of what he, alone, understands to be the life force of his people, hangs himself. In the formlessness of the dying culture, it is the missionary who takes note of the event, reminding himself to give Okonkwo's gesture a line or two in his work, The Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of the Lower Niger.

This book sings with the terrible silence of dead civilizations in which once there was valor.

Pub Date: Jan. 23, 1958

ISBN: 0385474547

Page Count: 207

Publisher: McDowell, Obolensky

Review Posted Online: April 23, 2013

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Jan. 1, 1958

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