On Reading DeLillo’s Libra

In Don Delillo’s Libra, all the men are of the same ilk to an extent that isn’t believable. They all seem shaped by DeLillo’s masculine sensibility. They are all in ¾ profile, or less. There’s a whole domain of feeling that none of them experience—or, being a domain, I should say “enter.” None enters it, this domain of feeling. It’s a place, broadly put, of vulnerable, soft emotions. (Believe me, I never thought this kind of thing would be my literary crusade.) Continue reading “On Reading DeLillo’s Libra”

On The Road

I’m reading The Road by C. McCarthy. Finally. It was an Oprah pick, I think, a few years ago. Many acquaintances and coworkers I know have read it—casual readers by all accounts. My wife has read it. Discussion has surrounded me, and I’ve meant to check it out for some time. Finally am. Pretty captivating, and certainly unique. Grim. But a bit silly at times. Rather like a horror film when they went down in that basement. Continue reading “On The Road”