I’m re-reading Don Delillo’s Underworld.
The first time I read it, I was twenty-two. I liked it yet thought it was overabundantly American.
I still think that, but now I also think it’s a masterpiece I can never live without.
The difference between these two responses makes me worried about who I was at the age of twenty-two.
I soothe myself with the explanation that I probably missed half of Delillo’s brilliance because of my poorer comprehension of English at the time.