25 Quotes About Don-delillo

That clean but lonely feeling when there are no other cars. The traffic lights changing just for you.

How many times do two people have to fuck before one of them deserves to die?" _Eric Packer

How language is webbed in the senses. Out of sand-blazed brilliance into quirky minds such as his, into touch, taste and fragrance. He thought he'd linger just a bit longer, let the bath take total hold, ease and alleviate, before he put on clothes and entered the complex boxes where people do their living.Nothing fits the body so well as water.

He picks up speed and seems to lose his gangliness, the slouchy funk of hormones and unbelonging and all the stammering things that seal his adolescence. He is just a running boy, a half-seen figure from the streets, but the way running reveals some clue to being, the way a runner bares himself to consciousness, this is how the dark-skinned kid seems to open to the world, how the bloodrush of a dozen strides bring him into eloquence.

All plots tend to move deathward. This is the nature of plots. Political plots, terrorist plots, lovers’ plots, narrative plots, plots that are part of children’s games. We edge nearer death every time we plot. It is like a contract that all must sign, the plotters as well as those who are the targets of the plot.

I pick up the list of Benji's five favorite books because we've got work to do:"Gravity's Rainbow" by Thomas Pynchon. He's a pretentious fuck and a liar."Underworld" by Don DeLillo. He's a snob."On the Road" by Jack Kerouac. He's a spoiled passport-carrying fuck stunted in eighth grade."Brief Interviews with Hideous Men" by David Foster Wallace. Enough already."The Red Badge of Courage" by Stephen Crane. He's got Mayflowers in his blood.

These old Australians or Californians who spend all their days staring at the ocean without leaving their limousines, which they have turned into their panoramic childhood sites and their coffins, and who dream there, while awaiting the last wave, the one that will come from the depths of the ocean to engulf them.

There was no great novel of the nineties. The last major books came out in the eighties, and they were Blood Meridian and then I’d say White Noise by Don DeLillo, who very well might have seen where everything was heading and whose work then articulated it all very well.

Sounds like a boring life.""I hope it lasts forever," she said.