"Underworld" by Don DeLillo

A bag of mulch with a few well concealed marbles in it

Ah, whatever happened to following a story neatly developed around several (and by that I mean no more than say 5 or 6) characters? Why, Don? Why do you have to taunt me? Why did you not only introduce 10 or more characters, but also jumped around in time? How much more confusing can you make this novel? Did you ever think of us, born after the clock struck 12 of December 31, 1970?

Truly, I was lost in the pages. I lost my way somewhere between 1953 and 1962. I tried. Believe me. I tried. I searched for signs. I looked for ways to make sense of this cacophony of historical events, of human emotions, of snippets of dialogs. I tried unsuccessfully. For 800 pages, Don, I tried. For 800 pages I lifted the lamp above my head and searched for a way to proceed forward. At some point the road was sufficiently lit. I followed Nick’s tracks for example in his adolescent explorations, but then I lost them again. Then my mind retracted in further confusion when you introduced the I-character, and then the Edgar-character, and many more, and ‘Me-lost again’.

Don, believe me, I loved ‘The Body Artist’. I liked ‘Cosmopolis’. But despite the monolithic effort, all I can say about your ‘Underworld’ is that it’s drenched in confusion, in post-modern babble. It’s a bag of mulch, Don, and I had to dig to find the very few marbles buried in it in order to satisfy my lust for Contemporary American Literature.
I actually felt truly sorry for the readers, for myself.

- by Simon Cleveland