There is a certain sort of author, who, once he has produced something great, churns out only inferior work, and often so much of it that even fans doubt whether his former powers were the real deal. It’s embarrassing to watch, but it happens all the time—some of the most talented writers have ruined their reputations by continuing to yap after they’ve told all they know.
In a recent instance of this phenomenon, Don DeLillo, long respected as a Great American Novelist, pumped out his 18th full-length effort, The Silence. The book (at 117 pages in double-spaced Courier, it cannot rightly be called a novel) is likely his last, a sorry send-off after a distinguished career. But perhaps appropriate. Eighty-three years old and childless, save for his literary awards, the old man finally fits his apocalyptic preoccupations.
Not much happens in The Silence. Some friends decide to watch the 2022 Super Bowl in Manhattan. They are two middle-aged married couples and one high-functioning autist. The husbands are ornery and addicted to screens. The wives are bookish and sex-starved. The autist, with whom DeLillo aligns himself most closely, is an Einstein expert. Their plans fall through when unexplained events zap the whole city’s power. A plane crashes. The TV conks out. Cell phones die. The book ends. Silence.
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