Ugh, I need to make
Ugh, I need to make this page look better...
Anyway, a couple thoughts. First, I sadly read much less poetry than I used to precisely because it requires such a high level of attention. Yesterday I saw a woman on a Metrobus reading No More Masks!, which I believe is an anthology of poetry by women. I've not once attempted to read poetry during my subway and bus commutes, except for the ones in Harper's. In such noisy environments, I just don't think I could muster the necessary attention. It's very frustrating, because the level of attention you put into reading poetry pays back many times over -- reading poetry is good for the mind and soul in a way that no other literary form can achieve. (And I've still never been able to enjoy poetry on the Web, for some reason.)
About Joyces and Rachels: Joyce was, I think, both a stereotype and a disguised but ominous truth. There may be people like Joyce out there, but much more prevalent are people who, although not entirely like her, share her self-flattering but patronizing attitudes. Which was what made her both simultaneously fun to laugh at, but also a bit sad because she was so deluded. I can't help but feel sorry for self-deluding characters, even if their delusions lead them to wicked ends. Rachel, on the other hand, was far too one-dimensional to elicit any sympathy, and I didn't like the way Kingsolver used her, because I felt like the author was just feeling smug by letting us in on the in-joke Rachel couldn't understand. It's like Kingsolver was saying, "See, you and I both know that Rachel is shallow -- funny, right? I'm being funny!" The drawback of that smugness is precisely what you underline, hcog -- that all white people are just as guilty of Rachel's flaws to some extent, but, by feeling superior to her, I think we're unjustly encouraged to let ourselves off the hook. (And empathizing with Leah, a much more sympathetic character, might make us feel even more worthy of being let off the hook, even if we aren't. I'm saying "we" here as a white person.)
I'll just get DeLillo's new one out of the library, if it's ever checked in when I go. Right now, I'm reading Cruddy, by Lynda Barry, which is amazing. I'm a big fan of Barry's cartoons, but I honestly had no idea she was capable of writing such a book -- I'm glad she's working on another novel now.
So what's DeLillo's best book? End Zone is his funniest, I think. But White Noise packs a more thoughtful message. They're both so good, though, I can't decide. Great Jones Street and Ratner's Star were both wastes of time, though the more scholarly side of me enjoyed seeing the influences bearing on DeLillo in those two books (Godard, Beckett, Alice in Wonderland).