A minor, transitory, and often underwhelming entry in Delillo's oeuvre. Glittering in moments when prose flits through crowds or the smogged memory of temples. Capitalism rips the bottom out of labor; language can't catch up to the many wheels of capital and we're left some transcendent all-too-human discourse in worship or words or war.

The novel gasps to cohere but can't reach the escape velocity of the gravity it depicts. The gaps between the cults and meditations and geopolitics and half-forgotten little boys are too narrow - the novel collapses on itself.