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Or merely the expected habit for the sort of
creature we are, mere animal behavior, something directed by biology and an
environment that shapes our responses to it? A mystery. My experience with
this book was that it reminded of those times , alone, or in a crowd, when my
thinking got the best of me, due to some sort of trauma or illness or some such
thing, when the nature of existence became a dominant topic of all my thinking.
Concentrated, felt existentialism, when all of what seems to be is questioned
and nothing seems to fit this world right. It is the nagging sensation that all
is mere perception, nothing else. DeLillo’s language is crisp, evocative,
precise to the mood and his ideas: you envy his flawless grasp of rhythm and
diction as these traits simultaneously make the cottage on the cold , lonely
coast seem sharp as snap shot, but blurred like old memory, roads, and forests
in a foggy shroud. A short, haunted masterwork. I think what I
meant to convey was that the meaning she was seeking, the connection between
what she's examining outside herself, the precise moment where existence seemed
purposeful, is a mystery. The answer is not revealed, if there was an answer at
all. What is obvious to the reader is that we are witnessing rituals of some
very private sort--the obsessed cleansing of the body, the concentrated on
selected external facts, the momentary wanderings of mind that consider what
sort of consequence the continued ritual of trying to bridge the gap between
the subjective mind and a world external actually has. Evidence of consciousness,
a soul, the essence of what makes us human. Or merely the expected habit for
sort of creature we are, mere animal behavior, something directed by biology
and an environment that shapes our responses to it? A mystery. My
experience with this book was that it reminded of those times , alone, or in a
crowd, when my thinking got the best of me, due to some sort of trauma or
illness or some such thing, when the nature of existence became a dominant
topic of all my thinking. Concentrated, felt existentialism, when all of what
seems to be is questioned and nothing seems to fit this world right. It is the
nagging sensation that all is mere perception, nothing else.
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