Full disclosure: I often start writing these reviews while I’m still reading the book. I am, as I’ve detailed elsewhere, unforgivably lazy about writing. I enjoy the process on some level, and it’s kinda fun when I experience one of those rare moments where I return to something I’ve written and think, “Hey, that’s not entirely horrible.” But the truth of it is that there are always other things I’d rather be doing, and none of them require as much effort as sitting down to crank out (optimistically, when it comes to these reviews) 1,000 words or so. I’ve found the only significant way I can generate some momentum and enthusiasm for the act of writing these recent posts is to begin composing them before I sit down to type. This gives me direction and purpose, and it prevents the paralysis I occasionally feel when faced with blank screen and blinking cursor. So there are times when I know by the midpoint of a book what angle I’m going to take, or, in the case of something like Andy Weir’s The Martian, I can tell the book is irredeemably stupid and I’m not at risk of having my negative review ruined by an abnormally high-quality closing chapter. In those cases I might have already written the opening paragraph or two before I actually finish the last page of the book.
But there are also, I have to admit, times when I begin mentally composing the review before I’ve even started reading the book. Such was the case with Don DeLillo’s Point Omega, which I knew was next in line following Elmore Leonard’s Gold Coast. These things I also knew:
- I’m a huge fan of Leonard, and it seemed unlikely I’d be writing him a negative review.
- I used to love DeLillo, but his recent works have left me cold, especially The Body Artist, which I read a mere three months ago but about whose plot I remember absolutely nothing.
- I’ve never written a combo review before. Wouldn’t it be swell if I wrote a single review linking these two books, specifically focusing on the degree to which Leonard’s early genre fiction was superior to DeLillo’s recent highbrow fiction?
I worked my way through Gold Coast with this framework in mind, already picturing the way I was going to assert my populist preference. And then the following two things happened:
1) Gold Coast wasn’t very good.
2) Point Omega was fantastic.
So back to the drawing board and a single review of Point Omega, a short book of palpable melancholy that somehow manages to simultaneously be about three specific people and everyone in the world.
It’s a book where summary is almost beside the point. I’ll try anyway. Elster, one of the architects of the second Iraq War, is in a cabin in the middle of the Arizona desert with Finley, a documentarian who’s trying to convince Elster to allow him to make a Fog of War-style movie with Elster as the focal point, telling his story against a blank wall, no questions, no stock footage, just one man talking and telling his side of the run-up to the war. Elster’s daughter Jessie shows up, then she disappears. The men look for her. They go home. This is bookended by two short scenes that take place at the Museum of Modern Art in an exhibition where Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho has been slowed down to last 24 hours. And that’s it.
Taken at face value, its another of DeLillo’s exercises in minimalism (see also Falling Man and Cosmopolis, neither of which I enjoyed as much as his early works like White Noise and Libra), but as I mentioned earlier there’s a deep core of melancholy at Point Omega’s center, not just in the stark desert setting or Elster’s near-catatonia when Jessie disappears. It suffuses everything, and to that end it’s a book that needs to be experienced more than explained.
“Oh ha ha, Rob,” you’re saying. “Experienced more than explained. What the hell does that mean?” Well, if I can get even more pretentious for a second, the action in Point Omega isn’t in the action. Hikes in the desert, Jessie’s arrival, the search after she’s gone – these are almost irrelevant. The action is in the spaces between this movement, in passages of relative inaction, when we get dialogue like this, from Elster, reflecting on his approach toward the Iraq War:
‘Haiku means nothing beyond what it is. A pond in summer, a leaf in the wind. It’s human consciousness located in nature. It’s the answer to everything in a set number of lines, a prescribed syllable count. I wanted a haiku war,’ he said. ‘I wanted a war in three lines. This was not a matter of force levels or logistics. What I wanted was a set of ideas linked to transient things. This is the soul of haiku. Bare everything to plain sight. See what’s there. Things in war are transient. See what’s there and then be prepared to watch it disappear.’
Can I say with any authority what Point Omega is about? Not really. But as many problems as I have with latter-day DeLillo, there’s one thing about his most recent books that I like quite a bit: their sparseness makes them literary Rorschach tests, open to a range of interpretations. Here’s how I made sense of it. During one conversation, Elster describes the omega point as the time at which we “leap out of our biology” and into something else. With that in mind, Point Omega seems to be about the power of loss to jolt us out of one reality and into another. Those times when we are most present, most alive, because we’ve had to watch the things we love fade away.
Courtney Barnett – Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit (2015)