white noise.

I finished reading 'White Noise' by Don DeLillo a few weeks ago. Books tend to fade from memory once you've picked up a new one. But this book has left a thick residue across my brain that will not disappear quickly. And it is an after-effect that is not entirely pleasant as it is directly concerned with my now constant fear of death.

I never really used to fear death because I had never really thought about it. I had thought about dying certainly and imagined several new and exciting ways to die, but death (as I now can see, thanks to 'White Noise') is a different matter altogether. I think my youth is the only real thing I have to buffer myself against this new-found fear and I am holding tightly on to it, too. But certain daily activities like driving in friend's cars, taking the bus and crossing Main Road unexpectedly remind me of those bizarre situations that occurred in 'White Noise', and these reminders are accompanied by a shudder of the possibility of a lack of life. (Lots of 'of's').

The other disconcerting after-effect of 'White Noise' is that it has brought to life a small and unfamiliar bit of me that wants to be American. And I am generally very grateful that I am not American. (The only other person who has ever made me crave America is Jack Kerouac. But I mostly want to be Sal Paradise rather than be an actual American). Yet, there is something about 'White Noise' - the engrossing domestic descriptions, the odd and beautiful family dynamics, the irresistably surreal characters and genius side-rants - that truly make me want to move to America and indulge in that foreign and familiar world. I have been romanced by the idea of vile consumer delights and American unabashedness.

I am somewhat embarressed that I can be so intrigued and enamoured by American literature which is perhaps why I am now reading that voluminous Russian, Tolstoy. Inspired partly the desire to steer clear of yet another American author, but mostly this feeling that once I have read something by Tolstoy, I can read anything I want. (In highschool I had the same theory about 'Lord of the Rings'.) Once I reach the level of casually reading 'Anna Karenin' I will feel less guilty about all the classics I have not read and feel like I have the right to indulge in any shitty book I want because... pf! I've read Tolstoy. It's like storing up credits. One really amazing, famous, smart book roughly equals seven totally average mind-numbing books.

Anyway.

Read 'White Noise'.