The Body Artist: A Novel

Don DeLillo followed his massive 800-plus page Underworld with this slim novel about Lauren Hartke, a woman who discovers a mysterious stranger in the remote summer home she is renting. It is easy to imagine that DeLillo was exhausted after his tour de force, and that The Body Artist was little more than an exercise for him, a pallet cleanser, something of a different tone and a different scope. Unfortunately for his readers, what might have been fun for him to write is not fun for us to read. The writing is spare. The words sit heavily on the page, resisting joining the other words in the sentence, and the sentences avoid the sentences that follow. Each thought seems so distinct, so definite, that it's hard to hold onto any of them, and I often found myself rereading the sentences in order to catch the meaning. The best way to describe the prose is in DeLillo's own words, as "an act of floating poetry....How strange the discontinuity. It seemed a quantum hop, one word to the next." The fact that DeLillo describes his own writing within the book suggests that the awkwardness was deliberate, but just because it was done consciously doesn't mean that it's good. I wanted more of the truths that I have come to expect from DeLillo, and not just ambiance. When Lauren finally seems to have an emotional breakthrough, the reader hasn't been given enough material to follow her there. We are left wondering, has anything actually happened? If you are interested in reading DeLillo, read White Noise and save The Body Artist for when you are such a fan that you want to have read everything he has ever published.

Being a fan of Underworld and The Names, I probably would have gone out and read The Body Artist even without the reviews, but one review in particular(Michiko Kakutani NY Times 1/19) quotes the only really nice passage in the whole book, "You don't know how to love the ones you love until they disappear abruptly. Then you understand how thinly distanced from their suffering, how sparing of self you often were, only rarely unguarded of heart, working your networks of give-and-take." That one passage is enough for me to justify reading the book, but I think that for the most part, DeLillo consistently fails whenever he starts talking art (Klara Sax, Great Jones Street- too painful to read).

In a moment of self-inflicted irony, Don DeLilo opens Chapter 4 of The Body Artist with "All these words are wrong". It happens to be the best sentence in the book because The Body Artist is as disappointing as getting home with an Academy Award-winning movie only to discover that it won't play - and your beer is warm too.

This book poses as a short introduction to the work of a decorated, artistically accessible American novelist. Reading it, though, is like trying to sleep in a short-sheeted bed. Four sentences into the first paragraph you find the most beautiful and comfortable sentence imaginable: "You know more surely who you are on a strong bright day after a storm when the smallest falling leaf is stabbed with self-awareness." Then it gets uncomfortable and, ultimately, enraging.

Don't bother reading this book. Take a long nap instead.

I was interested in the story of "The Body Artist" because, as some of you know, a "body artist" is the name we in my profession (architecture) have given to those who actually design the outer part of a building, the nonfunctional but beautifully pleasing visible part. I was such a body artist before my eyesight disappeared. Yes, I'm a blind architect. Good only for cold equations and what is somewhat obscurely referred to as "business" consultations. In any event, "The Body Artist" is NOT about architecture. It is a very numbing story about a woman named Goody Michaelson who runs a bed and breakfast establishment in the Outer Banks. One day a huge storm rushes up the coast and Mrs. Michaelson refuses to leave the hotel. She is carried off to a tropical island off the coast of Madagascar where she learns the homely folkways of the tribe of intelligent Lemurs she encounters there and devotes the rest of her life to her fruit collection, forgetting about the "personal service" standard that had marked her days in the hospitality industry. I don't know, I thought it dragged a little after we arrived in the Madagascar part but, heck, I'm not the one who has to read aloud, it's my long-suffering but essentially functional wife. Think I'll keep her. As to the book, I sawed it into four equally sized sections, drilled a 3/4" hole in the center of each, and bolted the four together. Beautiful little piece, hearkening back to my old "body artist" days if I do say so myself. How I wish I could go back to active design.

I really loved the premise. I was fascinated about it. I think it would make a wonderful movie or play. It was a quick read and held my attention. I really would like to see the whole premise even taken farther. I was a bit dissapointed that we didn't focus on "Mr. Tuttle" more - I could've read about him even more.

This is definately an interesting book! Despite appearing to be a rather brief read it is incredibly intricate in both its context and DeLillo's writing style. The rhetoric gets a bit complex at points and can be rather odd, yet it seems to add to his respective themes relating to human perception of time, death, life, and oneself. I certianly recommend this book to anyone who enjoys analyzing literature or deliberating upon it. If you don't want to think at a relatively 'deep/reflective' level then I wouldn't recommend this book as it would basically be just odd.

I can't believe how many readers have been seduced by this goobledygook sophomoric word play. The success of any writer is his or her ability to tell a tale, seductively, clearly, and -- perchance -- poetically. Mr. Delillo does not have this talent.
James Joyce was a poet and by his own admission a comic. Mr. Delillo is no Joyce and if he is trying to be, he has yet to succeed.
I can't imagine any seasoned reader who does not see through this trickery. This piece of work is a deceit and a bore.
When one is told to imagine a brown piece of paper as a dead, headless squirrel I would hope they are taking serious medication to rise to the occasion. And, speaking of that...let me get an aspirin, although it took a few minutes to read this garbage, I have a splitting headache.

This novella is a prose poem about grief and loss, beautifully done as only DiLillo can write, with a masterful command of words; full of the not-quite said and not quite real. A very different work from his White Noise and Underworld.

If you read Michiko Kakutani's review of this novel in the New York Times, pretend that the moment did not happen. Open the book, smell the pages, read the words. Go home alone. Turn off the phone. Settle yourself in to your own body, your own mind, your own life. Realize that you are alone. Now read the book.
To compare this novel to Mao II or Libra is not only completely beside the point, it is insulting. Don Delillo is an artist who does not repeat himself. He is like Miles Davis - you can hear a note of Miles on a radio or in a bar, and you KNOW that it's Miles. You can read a sentence of Delillo AND IMMEDIATELY KNOW that it's Delillo. HOWEVER, every book he has written is different. He is not afraid to explore whatever worms its way into - or out of - his consciousness. He is one of the bravest artists I have encountered. With The Body Artist, he is very brave indeed. Many people who read (or pretend to have read) Underworld - which is one of the great books of the last century - will not like this book. And I'll tell you why right now - they do not want to think about death. They do not want to think about the ultimate isolation of human beings. We are alone. End of story. End of sentence. End of thought. Period.
Delillo has not only written one of the most beautiful and haunting books you will ever read; he has managed to do it and still capture the living rhythms of human speech and thought in a way that makes me shake my head in wonder, and laugh out loud, and weep - OVER A BOOK.
Read this book. It is important. It will change your life. And if it doesn't - then you need to listen more closely to the beating of your own heart.

Having read all of DeLillo's books ... this seems to be the most interesting. I have never have to read books twice to get the plot but this book presents the second time ever that I have had to do exactly that. I read Turn of the Screw four times before getting it. With the Body Artist, I had to read it three times to get to the essence of the book.
What is it with short novellas as ghost stories? Why are they thicker than they appear on paper.
The Body Artist is not my favorite work but the first chapter is so good.

Different than you may be use to reading. It certainly was for me. However I really really liked it. It is well written an entertaining. If you want something different... but really good... read this.

Don Delillo's reputation as one of our best novelists inspired me to buy this book. I had labored through the massive _Underworld_ and approached the brief _The Body Artist_ with optimism. But I cannot remember ever being more completely, hopelessly bored. After fifty pages I began praying for a faucet to drip or for paint to flake -- ANYTHING! to give me an excuse to quit reading. Finally, when the book's mysterious stranger showed up, I gave myself a good pep-talk: "Now, Tim, Mr. Delillo's forte is postmodern risk, breaking narrative, a tight focus on details, and tatters of speech. Stick with it! It will -- somehow! -- reward you!" Then, five pages and one hour later, I awoke and decided to scrape some paint.

Did I miss something?? This book is beautifully written but completely without point or plot. I kept reading it only based on the fact that I thought there would be some revelation at the end explaining what the rest of the book was supposed to mean, but there never is. I finished this book feeling unsatisfied. If you don't like stream of consciousness writing, this probably isn't for you either.

How a book could be both pretentious in style and so vague in its purpose is beyond me. I'd never recommend this title to anyone except those whom I wish to be distracted with absolute "nothingness" for an hour. Cutting-edge nonsense.

time flows in a figure-eight, inter-twined and melded with what we know and what we thought we knew, love, light, darkness, lost in obscurity and diamond sharpness. you flow with it and let it flow thru you, unrestricted. one of the longest and shortest stories i've ever listened to.