DeLillo's debut novel is all about the real (hyperreal) stuff of America and Americana: its image(s). He still hadn't worked out the magnificent prose style of most of his later work but this book's got it's own mojo working. The major themes of this novel were revisited, in various different ways, in many (most?) of DeLillo's later work, but this novel really tears into Americana. It's like Two-Lane Blacktop and David Lynch collided head-on with, well, Don DeLillo. It's a nightmare, and nightmares, lest we forget, are dreams. Like most seriously notable lit, this is distinctly of its time but still relevant, and real perceptive and prescient.

a quick note: parts of this really hammered home the parallels and similarities I'd already noticed between Don DeLillo's work and Mad Men. Perhaps a coincidence, but I wouldn't be surprised if Matthew Weiner has read many a DeLillo book.

And Conor Oberst is a colossal prick, but he's the only writer I know of who's described the conditions for reading DeLillo with maximum aesthetic impact: "Don DeLillo, whiskey neat, and a blinking midnight clock." Yes. Too bad the whiskey gets me into trouble after I put the book down...