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Seems like the author tried to emulate both Philip Roth and Saul Bellow in this book. Unfortunately, the only thing he learned from them is how to be excruciatingly, mind-numbingly boring. This book will not WIN the title of being "World's Most Boring Book About Pretty Much Nothing", but it will certainly always be a very strong contender.
This book starts well and would have been a good short story, but then it gets padded out with very bad writing.
This book is the most tedious left-wing whinge about modern life you will ever read. De Lillo is most at home whingeing about squalor in various parts of the world, and he finds himself obliged to make it up regularly. He doesn't let the truth get in the way of a good story. Further than this, he implies that the way the Western reader lives has caused these people to live in this squalor.
But all is not lost, because of the redemptive power of violence!
De Lillo is a 'postmodern' writer, ie. shallow. He reads too much into the modern phenomena of the crowd and the image. He labours to make his book about everything, but before you know it, it's about nothing. (It may in fact have been written on LSD, but the first rule about that is: you don't try to describe it.) (And if it wasn't, he's in need of medication.)
De Lillo would like you to assume, when you don't get it, that it's because he's too bright, rather than not bright enough. It all comes out exactly as bad as it is meaningless. In fact, it's not so much bad writing as imitation writing.
This book only represents 200 pages of Don de Lillo trying to figure life out, and failing.