"The Body Artist" A Mixed Review

Okay. Just finished "The Body Artist" by Don DeLillo. The title of this blog says it. Infact, the jury is still out on whether or not I liked this book at all. I'll start with what I like, then what I don't and maybe by the end of this entry, I'll have my answer.

I love DeLillo's prose style. I have often copied it myself (quite by accident, but I have none-the-less.) He is very aggressive, plowing through the plot so quickly that he often skips elements forcing you to fill in chunks of story. And he does it skillfully so that you know what must be filled in. At the same time, he will slow down every day actions so that, suddenly, the subtext in turning on a light switch can tell a life story.

I enjoy the way his narration reads like the inner-diologue of the characters. He uses repetition and dwells on small things the way a character would in his or her mind. It comes across as being very raw, without being clumsy. This style is why DeLillo's "Underworld" id one of my favorite books.

So what does "Underworld" have that "The Body Artist" does not? In short: story. In this novella (it calls itself a novel but is only 120 pages soaking wet) the character called "Mr. Tuttle" is a retarted man with a nack for repeating phrases he hears. The stories main character Lauren is so drawn to him that she feels sexually drawn to him and motherly toward him at the same time. She has long convesations with him (much of what he says has no meaning) and she attempts to teach him. The problem is, we the readers are only shown a very small number of them. We never get to know the character of Mr. Tuttle. DeLillo has forgotten Dotty Frye's first rule; show, not tell.

Also, Lauren really doesn't go through any transition. No one changes. I was never hurt ot touched or moved at all by these characters because I never watched them grow. Therefore, I could never grow with them, closer to them.

So if I have to decide, I can only say this: I'm glad I read it but I won't miss anybody when I put this book on the graveyard of my shelf. And that is the tragedy.