from Don DeLillo, Mao II (1991)
"Do you know why I believe in the novel? It's a democratic shout. Anybody can write a great novel, one great novel, almost any amateur off the street. I believe this, George. Some nameless drudge, some desperado with barely a nurtured dream can sit down and find his voice and luck out and do it. Something so angelic it makes your jaw hang open. The spray of talent, the spray of ideas. One thing unlike another, one voice unlike the next. Ambiguities, contradictions, whispers, hints. And this is what you want to destroy."
He found he was angry, unexpectedly.
"And when the novelist loses his talent, he dies democratically, there it is for everyone to see, wide open to the world, the shitpile of hopeless prose."
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3 comments:
i was just explaining to jeff yesterday that even though i was enjoying mao II, it was fairly standard as far as delillo goes-- spare prose, detached conversations, terrorism. this passage really struck me, however; such moment see to have even more impact in delillo's work because they are in such stark contrast to the ironic distance employed throughout the rest of the novel.
This post yearns for "the romance that sail sail a thousand MFA programs" label.
And maybe also "the innocence of walt whitman"?
The "shitpile of hopeless prose" is really the most perfect "junk" of our culture isn't it?
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