I shopped for its own sake, looking and touching, inspecting merchandise I had no intention of buying, then buying it. I sent clerks into their fabric books and pattern books to search for elusive designs. I began to grow in value and self regard. I filled myself out, found new aspects of myself, located a person I’d forgotten existed. Brightness settled around me.

A big ol' "meh" from me. I didn't care about anyone or anything in it, which is par for the course with me and satire. My fictional loves are character-driven, always have been. I understand, I believe, what DeLillo was saying re: American culture and consumerism, but it was nothing new to me (especially since this was written in the 1980s) and the prettiness of the words didn't alleviate the emptiness the story left me with. Maybe I just don't get DeLillo, but that's all right. There will always be others.

There's a lot of his works on Boxall's 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die, which means I'll have to give myself some time before I try him again.