Лучшие произведения (Дональда Ричарда) Дона Делилло

Белый шум — комедия о страхе, смерти и технологии. Смерть невозможно отрицать, каждый день она проникает в сознание с телеэкранов и страниц бульварных газет. Каждый день она проникает в тело дозами медикаментов и кислотными дождями. Человеческое сознание распадается под натиском рекламы и прогнозов погоды. Мы боимся смерти — и продолжаем жить. Несмотря на белый шум смерти...

В книге 28-летний миллиардер катит в лимузине по Манхэттену, направляясь к давнему парикмахеру своего отца, чтобы, не поверите, постричься, и на пути своем встречает разных занимательных персонажей. В частности, фигурируют в "Космополисе" некие наемные убийцы и голая жена героя.
Добраться же до места назначение герою мешают — пробки, вызванные проездом президентского кортежа, некая похоронная процессия, народный митинг и прочая.

Смогут ли технологии будущего менять настоящее? Известный американский писатель Дон Делилло моделирует ситуацию, в которой это – вполне реальная перспектива. И у тех, кто согласен на эксперимент, появляется шанс, уйдя из жизни, вернуться к ней, когда найдут способы борьбы с их болезнями и мир, возможно, изменится к лучшему. Трое героев романа выбирают, кто-то – пока что призрачное будущее, кто-то – сегодняшнюю жизнь.

Эта книга об эпохе, когда будущее принадлежит толпам, а шедевры создаются с помощью гексогена. Ее герой — легендарный американский писатель, много лет проживший отшельником, — оказывается ключевой фигурой в игре ближневосточных террористов.

Эта книга — о том, как творится история. Не на полях сражений и не в тронных залах — а в трущобах и пыльных кабинетах, людьми с сомнительным прошлым и опасным настоящим. В этой книге перемешаны факты и вымысел, психология и мистика, но причудливое сплетение нитей заговора и человеческих судеб сходится в одной точке — 22 ноября 1963 года, Даллас, штат Техас. Поворотный момент в истории США и всей западной цивилизации — убийство президента Кеннеди. Одинокий маньяк или сложный заговор спецслужб, террористов и мафии?

Трагедия 11 сентября 2001 года, увиденная глазами разных героев и в разных ракурсах. Клерк, выбирающийся из уже готовой обвалиться башни, террорист-угонщик, готовящийся к последнему полету, – и еще несколько персонажей, так или иначе вовлекаемых в трагические события. Впрочем, это, по сути, не столько рассказ о трагедии, сколько привычный американский “семейный” роман, в котором плавное течение жизни разбивается внешним вторжением, отчего линейное повествование рассыпается на структурно перемешивающиеся фрагменты.

Американец, работающий в Афинах и стремящийся удержать свою семью от окончательного распада, узнает о существовании странного культа, последователи которого совершили ряд необъяснимых убийств в странах Ближнего и Среднего Востока. Отчасти по воле обстоятельств он оказывается вовлеченным в неофициальное расследование этих преступлений, затеянное его друзьями, и начинает ощущать, что поиски истины необычайно важны и для него самого...

Don DeLillo's reputation rests on a series of large-canvas novels, in which he's proven to be the foremost diagnostician of our national psyche. In The Body Artist, however, he sacrifices breadth for depth, narrowing his focus to a single life, a single death. The protagonist is Lauren Hartke, who we see sharing breakfast with her husband, Rey, in the opening pages. This 18-page sequence is a tour de force (albeit a less showy one than the author's initial salvo in Underworld)--an intricate, funny notation of Lauren's consciousness as she pours cereal, peers out the window, and makes idle chat. Rey, alas, will proceed directly from the breakfast table to the home of his former wife, where he'll unceremoniously blow his brains out.
What follows is one of the strangest ghost stories since The Turn of the Screw. And like James's tale, it seems to partake of at least seven kinds of ambiguity, leaving the reader to sort out its riddles. Returning to their summer rental after Rey's funeral, Lauren discovers a strange stowaway living in a spare room: an inarticulate young man, perhaps retarded, who may have been there for weeks. His very presence is hard for her to pin down: "There was something elusive in his aspect, moment to moment, a thinning of physical address." Yet soon this mysterious figure begins to speak in Rey's voice, and her own, playing back entire conversations from the days preceding the suicide. Has Lauren's husband been reincarnated? Or is the man simply an eavesdropping idiot savant, reproducing sentences he'd heard earlier from his concealment? DeLillo refuses any definitive answer. Instead he lets Lauren steep in her grief and growing puzzlement, and speculates in his own voice about this apparent intersection of past and present, life and death. At times his rhetoric gets away from him, an odd thing for such a superbly controlled writer. "How could such a surplus of vulnerability find itself alone in the world?" he asks, sounding as though he's discussing a sick puppy. And Lauren's performances--for she is the body artist of the title--sound pretty awful, the kind of thing Artaud might have cooked up for an aerobics class. Still, when DeLillo reins in the abstractions and bears down, the results are heartbreaking: Why shouldn't the death of a person you love bring you into lurid ruin? You don't know how to love the ones you love until they disappear abruptly. Then you understand how thinly distanced from their suffering, how sparing of self you often were, only rarely unguarded of heart, working your networks of give-and-take.
At this stage of his career, a thin book is an adventure for DeLillo. So is his willingness to risk sentimentality, to immerse us in personal rather than national traumas. For all its flaws, then, The Body Artist is a real, raw accomplishment, and a reminder that bigger, even for so capacious an imagination as DeLillo's, isn't always better. --James Marcus

Перевод выполнен по публикации в журнале The New Yorker за август 2017 г.

While Eisenstein documented the forces of totalitarianism and Stalinism upon the faces of the Russian peoples, DeLillo offers a stunning, at times overwhelming, document of the twin forces of the Cold War and American culture, compelling that "swerve from evenness" in which he finds events and people both wondrous and horrifying. Underworld opens with a breathlessly graceful prologue set during the final game of the Giants-Dodgers pennant race in 1951. Written in what DeLillo calls "super-omniscience" the sentences sweep from young Cotter Martin as he jumps the gate to the press box, soars over the radio waves, runs out to the diamond, slides in on a fast ball, pops into the stands where J. Edgar Hoover is sitting with a drunken Jackie Gleason and a splenetic Frank Sinatra, and learns of the Soviet Union's second detonation of a nuclear bomb. It's an absolutely thrilling literary moment. When Bobby Thomson hits Branca's pitch into the outstretched hand of Cotter—the "shot heard around the world"—and Jackie Gleason pukes on Sinatra's shoes, the events of the next few decades are set in motion, all threaded together by the baseball as it passes from hand to hand. "It's all falling indelibly into the past," writes DeLillo, a past that he carefully recalls and reconstructs with acute grace. Jump from Giants Stadium to the Nevada desert in 1992, where Nick Shay, who now owns the baseball, reunites with the artist Kara Sax. They had been brief and unlikely lovers 40 years before, and it is largely through the events, spinoffs, and coincidental encounters of their pasts that DeLillo filters the Cold War experience. He believes that "global events may alter how we live in the smallest ways," and as the book steps back in time to 1951, over the following 800-odd pages, we see just how those events alter lives. This reverse narrative allows the author to strip away the detritus of history and pop culture until we get to the story's pure elements: the bomb, the baseball, and the Bronx. In an epilogue as breathless and stunning as the prologue, DeLillo fast-forwards to a near future in which ruthless capitalism, the Internet, and a new, hushed faith have replaced the Cold War's blend of dread and euphoria. Through fragments and interlaced stories—including those of highway killers, artists, celebrities, conspiracists, gangsters, nuns, and sundry others—DeLillo creates a fragile web of connected experience, a communal Zeitgeist that encompasses the messy whole of five decades of American life, wonderfully distilled.

An unparalleled work of historical conjecture, ranging imaginatively over huge tracts of the American popular consciousness, Don DeLillo's Libra contains an introduction by the author in Penguin Modern Classics.
In this powerful, eerily convincing fictional speculation on the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, Don DeLillo chronicles Lee Harvey Oswald's odyssey from troubled teenager to a man of precarious stability who imagines himself an agent of history. When "history" presents itself in the form of two disgruntled CIA operatives who decide that an unsuccessful attempt on the life of JFK will galvanize the nation against Communism, the scales are irrevocably tipped.
Don DeLillo (b.1936) was born and raised in New York City. Americana (1971), his first novel, announced the arrival of a major literary talent, and the novels that followed confirmed his reputation as one of the most distinctive and compelling voices in late-twentieth-century American fiction. DeLillo's comic gifts come to the fore in White Noise (1985), which won the National Book Award, Underworld (1997), hailed by Martin Amis as 'the ascension of a great writer', Cosmopolis (2003), adapted into a film by David Cronenberg, due to be released later this year, and Falling Man (2007), a novel about the aftereffects of the 9/11 terrorist attacks in New York.

How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn't they paralyze us?
Jack Gladney is the creator and chairman of Hitler studies at the College-on-the-Hill. This is the story of his absurd life; a life that is going well enough, until a chemical spill from a train carriage releases an 'Airborne Toxic Event' and Jack is forced to confront his biggest fear - his own mortality.
White Noise is an effortless combination of social satire and metaphysical dilemma in which Don DeLillo exposes our rampant consumerism, media saturation and novelty intellectualism. It captures the particular strangeness of life lived when the fear of death cannot be denied, repressed or obscured and ponders the role of the family in a time when the very meaning of our existence is under threat.