The Body Artist

The Body Artist

2.9 8
by Don DeLillo

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A stunning novel by the bestselling National Book Award-winning author of White Noise and Underworld.

Since the publication of his first novel Americana, Don DeLillo has lived in the skin of our times. He has found a voice for the forgotten souls who haunt the fringes of our culture and for its larger-than-life, real-life figures. His


A stunning novel by the bestselling National Book Award-winning author of White Noise and Underworld.

Since the publication of his first novel Americana, Don DeLillo has lived in the skin of our times. He has found a voice for the forgotten souls who haunt the fringes of our culture and for its larger-than-life, real-life figures. His language is defiantly, radiantly American.

In The Body Artist his spare, seductive twelfth novel, he inhabits the muted world of Lauren Hartke, an artist whose work defies the limits of the body. Lauren is living on a lonely coast, in a rambling rented house, where she encounters a strange, ageless man, a man with uncanny knowledge of her own life. Together they begin a journey into the wilderness of time, love and human perception.

The Body Artist is a haunting, beautiful and profoundly moving novel from one of the finest writers of our time.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
Malcolm Jones Newsweek The work of a masterful writer.

Adam Begley The New York Times Book Review A metaphysical ghost story about a woman alone...intimate, spare, exquisite.

Mark Luce The Atlanta Journal-Constitution Dazzling, disturbing, and lyrical.

Gail Caldwell The Boston Globe Eerie and sometimes discomfiting...DeLillo achieves a creepily hypnotic effect with his stark, probing prose....A glimpse at the desolate landscape that all of us inhabit and where no one else is.

Joseph Tirella People A tightly constructed string quartet...[a] spare gem of a novel. Review
The Barnes & Noble Review
In whatever form Don DeLillo chooses to write, there is simply no other American author who has so consistently pushed the boundaries of fiction in his effort to capture the zeitgeist. In The Body Artist, DeLillo tells the hallucinatory tale of performance artist Lauren Hartke in the days following the suicide of her husband, filmmaker Rey Robles. Finishing out their lease of a rented house on the coast, living in a self-imposed exile, Lauren discovers a mysterious man in the bedroom upstairs who is able to repeat -- verbatim -- entire conversations she had with her husband before his death but does not seem to know his own name or where he came from.

DeLillo's emphasis on behavior and the inadequacies of language in The Body Artist will remind readers more of his plays (Valparaiso, The Day Room) than of his novels, and yet, in just a few pages -- 128, as compared to the sweeping, masterful Underworld's 800-plus -- DeLillo still manages to draw a rich portrait of contemporary American life in all its quotidian glory. Describing Lauren in the kitchen on the morning her husband will commit suicide, he writes, "She took the kettle back to the stove because this is how you live a life even if you don't know it." In this opening scene, Lauren and Rey silently struggle to assign meaning and relevance to an ordinary moment. They have a routine; they know what comes next. But they can't say what it is. They seem cut off from their own actions. How do you articulate the emotion that accompanies eating breakfast with your spouse? As Rey puts it, "I want to say something but what." When they finish eating, Rey drives to his ex-wife's apartment in Manhattan to kill himself.

The question remains open as to whether or not the strange man (whom Lauren affectionately names Mr. Tuttle, after an English teacher of hers, when she finds him upstairs) exists at all, or if he is merely a figment of her imagination. But Mr. Tuttle's origins are entirely beside the point. He has no origins. He defies description. He is neither old nor young. "Maybe this man experiences another kind of reality where he is here and there, before and after." And leave it to DeLillo to connect this enigma to the Internet. There is a live, 24-hour web site Lauren enjoys viewing: It shows an empty road in Kotka, Finland. Occasionally a car drives by or a person crosses the screen, but generally nothing happens. Lauren is fascinated by the notion that across the globe, at this very moment, this is happening, an episode "real enough to withstand the circumstance of nothing going on." This may also be the best way to describe The Body Artist, a book in which "it all happens around the word seem."

In DeLillo's unique brand of lucid, albeit elliptical, prose, The Body Artist addresses the very questions Gauguin inscribed on his famous painting: Who am I? Where do I come from? Where am I going? Lauren Hartke answers these questions by transforming the absurdities of her daily life -- that hours can seem long or short and still be hours; how a thing can look like something other than itself -- into a beautiful, suggestive live performance. Through her art, Lauren transcends the limits of language and body, approaching an understanding of her husband's death and more clearly discerning her own original nature. And in a brilliant act of spiritual ventriloquism, DeLillo, "the poet of lonely places," dresses himself up in this character, placing us in the extreme situation of her search for an experience of meaning she can call living.

Washington Post Book World
This novel by an American master can be read in a single sitting. But you should probably allow time to ponder the precision of his prose and the depth of his understanding.
The Body Artist is the gem with which Don DeLillo follows his last masterwork, 1997's mountain of prose, Underworld. The two novels could hardly seem more different. Underworld took 827 pages to scrutinize fifty years of recent American life. Everything that obsesses its author was in it: politics and violence, baseball, immigrant struggle, a view of history as an elaboration of dense conspiracies. The Body Artist, by comparison, is skeletal fiction: poetic, suggestive, cryptic. Whereas Underworld exploded—a virtuoso turn in multifarious tongues (DeLillo analyzed, rhapsodized and burrowed with a kind of enraptured journalist's frenzy into real-world detail)—The Body Artist implodes. Everything in it happens inside a single character, a soul in extremis. It's a dark-night-of-the-soul book, a secular Gethsemane experience wherein a soul is tested and tried. And yet, at 124 pages, it gives us as complete a world as Underworld did. This time it's the interior world, and the struggle there is devastating, yet, in the end, perhaps triumphant.

The dark night is Lauren Hartke's. She's the body artist, a sort of conceptual/performance artist who contorts her flesh to render physical metaphysical states; "body talking" about inner experience, she presents open-ended narratives played out in unfunny mime. Until the novel's conclusion, DeLillo reserves description of her actual "slow, spare and painful" art; we know, though, from the second page, that her intelligence is kinesthetic—her senses pick up things uncannily: "She rubbed her hand dry on her jeans, feeling a sense somewhere of the color blue, runny andwan." Her work, and the book's title, can't help evoking Kafka's astonishing story, "The Hunger Artist." There, a strange performer engaged in a life-and-death struggle to find any "food" to nourish him; his search was excruciating.

We know, too, that at the novel's start, Lauren has found herself in a remote rented house in a kind of lovers' exile with her husband, Rey Robles, "cinema's poet of lonely places." He's a cult legend, and significantly older; like Picasso's women, she's as much acolyte as amour. Soon enough, her own loneliness intensifies as Robles, on a short trip away from their apparent idyll, kills himself in the Manhattan apartment of a former wife. Lauren's world collapses; she retreats beneath the skin of grief. Her work is clear: survival.

A year ago, DeLillo joined the august company of Graham Greene, Simone de Beauvoir and Jorge Luis Borges as a recipient of the Jerusalem Prize, accorded writers "whose work expresses the theme of the freedom of the individual in society." Since the early '70s, DeLillo has examined potent mini-societies: football in End Zone; rock 'n' roll in Great Jones Street; the university in White Noise; the media and subterranean politics in Mao II. In each novel, often an agitated seeker/loner contends with such societies—the most memorable, Lee Harvey Oswald in Libra, is both a puppet and perpetrator in the byzantine twilight of JFK-assassination plotland. In The Body Artist, society of almost any sort recedes. There's detritus in the minutiae of quotidian life (breakfast cereal, the Internet, Toyotas), but upon the death of her lover, Lauren is left all alone.

She becomes a hermit; in psych-speak, she dissociates, losing touch with corporeal reality (a bitter, ironic fate for a body artist, as it's the state mystics speak of when the soul readies to fly from "the alone to the Alone"). A castaway, then, on her isle of pain, she refuses any outside succor.

But a surreal Man Friday discovers her; he's been secreted all along in the recesses of her rented hideaway. She's been hearing odd rustlings (remember Jane Eyre's intimations of a ghostly presence in the walls). Not only is she then haunted by her dead lover, but by a ghost who materializes. An amazing fictional creation, this character is an ageless, babyish homeless man, whose language—telegraphic bursts of disconnected words—seems the vestiges of grammar, intelligence and "civilization." Part imp, part savage, he says things that Lauren decodes into meaning.

Examining identity and expression, the urge toward communication and communion, The Body Artist follows Lauren and her eerie companion (alternately muse and memory and conscience) as she works toward transforming her art and life. She begins anew: "Her eyes had to adjust to the night sky. She walked away from the house, out of the spill of electric light, and the sky grew deeper. She watched for a long time and it began to spread and melt and go deeper still, developing strata and magnitudes and light-years in numbers so unapproachable that someone had to invent idiot names to represent the arrays of ones and zeros and powers and dominations because only the bedtime language of childhood can save us from awe and shame."
—Paul Evans

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
After 11 novels, DeLillo (Underworld; White Noise) is an acknowledged American master, and a writer who rarely repeats his successes. This slim novella is puzzling, and may prove entirely mystifying to many readers; like all DeLillo's fiction, it offers a vision of contemporary life that expresses itself most clearly in how the story is told. Would you recognize what you had said weeks earlier, if it were the last thing, among other last things, you said to someone you loved and would never see again? That question, posed late in the narrative, helps explain the somewhat aimless and seemingly pointless opening scene, in which a couple gets up, has breakfast, and the man looks for his keys. Next we learn that he failed film director Rey Robles, 64, is dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. She, Lauren, a "body artist," goes on living alone in their house along a lonely coast, until she tracks a noise to an unused room on the third floor and to a tiny, misshapen man who repeats back conversations that she and Rey had weeks before. Is Mr. Tuttle, as Lauren calls him, real, possibly an inmate wandered off from a local institution? Or is he a figment of Lauren's grieving imagination? Is thisDas DeLillo playfully slips into Lauren's mind at one point the first case of a human abducting an alien? One way of reading this story is as a novel told backwards, in a kind of time loop: DeLillo keeps hidden until his closing pages Lauren's role as a body artist and with it, the novel's true narrative intent. DeLillo is always an offbeat and challenging novelist, and this little masterpiece of the storyteller's craft may not be everyone's masterpiece of the storytelling art. But like all DeLillo's strange and unforgettable works, this is one every reader will have to decide on individually. (Feb. 6) Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Delillo's penchant for intermingling historical facts with fiction and his knack for creating uncanny but likely characters, such as the professor of Hitler studies in White Noise, are the most recognizable traits of his novels. While his latest work also explores the familiar themes of fear, mistrust, and misgiving, it is Delillo's most unusual as well as his riskiest endeavor. Residing in a ghostly seaside house, protagonist Lauren Hartke is a gifted body artist who contorts her body both to manipulate and to escape reality. After her husband's sudden suicide, she encounters a man (or a shadow of a man) who knows the most intimate details of her life and is even able to repeat back the couple's past conversations. The two begin a strange relationship that transcends time, space, and human imagination. One of the passing characters best summarizes the crux of the tale when she claims that Hartke's art is about "who we are when we are not rehearsing who we are." This sparse but precise novella may be easily read in one sitting, but it takes an attentive reader willing to give a major author like Delillo room to maneuver to value this kind of eerie symbolism. The Body Artist may not have an epic range, but it proves that its author does, and it will possibly open a new chapter in his prolific career. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 10/1/00.]--Mirela Roncevic, "Library Journal" Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Paul Gray
An unforgettable vision of the shattering effects of death in Don DeLillo's haunting novella.
Maitland Jr. Jr. Jones
A slim 124 pages, but length aside, there's nothing slight about this unsettling tale of a woman contending with the fact of her husband's suicide...watching DeLillo find fresh ways to make words matter, we know, without a scrap of doubt , that this is the work of a masterful writer.
Michiko Kakutani
What remains most interesting about this modest, imperfect novel is its fascination with the emotional life of its heroine — a focus on the personal that extends the sympathetic attention to character first evinced in Underworld, and points, in the future perhaps, to an exciting new vein in Mr. DeLillo's already remarkable body of work.
New York Times
Kirkus Reviews
This surpassingly eerie tale from the author of such contemporary classics as End Zone (1972), White Noise (1991), and Underworld (1997) artfully blends DeLillo's characteristic themes of paranoia and disorientation with the allure of the old-fashioned ghost story. The (literally) beleaguered protagonist is Lauren Hartke, a performance artist whose gift for conceiving and enacting aesthetically pleasing and meaningful poses overflows into her daily life ("She is always acting, always in the process of becoming another or exploring some root identity"). Following an opening (highly charged) breakfast-table conversation between Lauren and her husband,"dark" filmmaker Rey Robles, in the remote seaside house they're renting, an obituary notice reports his suicide—and propels Lauren into a more intense (and, ironically, transformative) relationship with the empty, noise-filled home she refuses to leave. She finds a man living in an unused bedroom: a nameless shadow of a man who speaks in provocative incomplete sentences, repeating conversations she remembers, in both Rey's voice and her own. Then, without warning, he disappears as inexplicably as he had appeared, having profoundly altered both Lauren's art and her grip on reality. DeLillo deepens the enigma of this central action with several evocative images: a Japanese woman watering her garden; computer pictures of a lightly traveled highway in another country; birds gathering at an outdoor feeder (readers who remember Stephen King's The Dark Half will half-understand what's going on)—and in numerous limpid sentences that spell out the mingled seductiveness and terror of the everyday worldLaurenmoves in and outof (" ... a skein of geese passed silently over her shoulder, flying down the world into their secret night"). Is the riddling stranger who enters"her" house an avatar of her husband's spirit passing from"reality"—or a harbinger of her own passing? Or both? A virtually perfect short novel, shimmering with in-held meaning, menace, and—oddly—a kind of reassurance.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Time seems to pass. The world happens, unrolling into moments, and you stop to glance at a spider pressed to its web. There is a quickness of light and a sense of things outlined precisely and streaks of running luster on the bay. 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. The wind makes a sound in the pines and the world comes into being, irreversibly, and the spider rides the wind-swayed web.

It happened this final morning that they were here at the same time, in the kitchen, and they shambled past each other to get things out of cabinets and drawers and then waited one for the other by the sink or fridge, still a little puddled in dream melt, and she ran tap water over the blueberries bunched in her hand and closed her eyes to breathe the savor rising.

He sat with the newspaper, stirring his coffee. It was his coffee and his cup. They shared the newspaper but it was actually, unspokenly, hers.

"I want to say something but what."

She ran water from the tap and seemed to notice. It was the first time she'd ever noticed this.

"About the house. This is what it is," he said. "Something I meant to tell you."

She noticed how water from the tap turned opaque in seconds. It ran silvery and clear and then in seconds turned opaque and how curious it seemed that in all these months and all these times in which she'd run water from the kitchen tap she'd never noticed how the water ran clear at first and then went not murky exactly but opaque, or maybe it hadn't happened before, or she'd noticed and forgotten.

She crossed to the cabinet with the blueberries wet in her hand and reached up for the cereal and took the box to the counter, the mostly brown and white box, and then the toaster thing popped and she flipped it down again because it took two flips to get the bread to go brown and he absently nodded his acknowledgment because it was his toast and his butter and then he turned on the radio and got the weather.

The sparrows were at the feeder, wing-beating, fighting for space on the curved perches.

She reached into the near cabinet for a bowl and shook some cereal out of the box and then dropped the berries on top. She rubbed her hand dry on her jeans, feeling a sense somewhere of the color blue, runny and wan.

What's it called, the lever. She'd pressed down the lever to get his bread to go brown.

It was his toast, it was her weather. She listened to reports and called the weather number frequently and sometimes stood out front and looked into the coastal sky, tasting the breeze for latent implications.

"Yes exactly. I know what it is," he said.

She went to the fridge and opened the door. She stood there remembering something.

She said, "What?" Meaning what did you say, not what did you want to tell me.

She remembered the soya granules. She crossed to the cabinet and took down the box and then caught the fridge door before it swung shut. She reached in for the milk, realizing what it was he'd said that she hadn't heard about eight seconds ago.

Every time she had to bend and reach into the lower and remote parts of the refrigerator she let out a groan, but not really every time, that resembled a life lament. She was too trim and limber to feel the strain and was only echoing Rey, identifyingly, groaning his groan, but in a manner so seamless and deep it was her discomfort too.

Now that he'd remembered what he meant to tell her, he seemed to lose interest. She didn't have to see his face to know this. It was in the air. It was in the pause that trailed from his remark of eight, ten, twelve seconds ago. Something insignificant. He would take it as a kind of self-diminishment, bringing up a matter so trivial.

She went to the counter and poured soya over the cereal and fruit. The lever sprang or sprung and he got up and took his toast back to the table and then went for the butter and she had to lean away from the counter when he approached, her milk carton poised, so he could open the drawer and get a butter knife.

There were voices on the radio in like Hindi it sounded.

She poured milk into the bowl. He sat down and got up. He went to the fridge and got the orange juice and stood in the middle of the room shaking the carton to float the pulp and make the juice thicker. He never remembered the juice until the toast was done. Then he shook the carton. Then he poured the juice and watched a skim of sizzling foam appear at the top of the glass.

She picked a hair out of her mouth. She stood at the counter looking at it, a short pale strand that wasn't hers and wasn't his.

He stood shaking the container. He shook it longer than he had to because he wasn't paying attention, she thought, and because it was satisfying in some dumb and blameless way, for its own childlike sake, for the bounce and slosh and cardboard orange aroma.

He said, "Do you want some of this?"

She was looking at the hair.

"Tell me because I'm not sure. Do you drink juice?" he said, still shaking the damn thing, two fingers pincered at the spout.

She scraped her upper teeth over her tongue to rid her system of the complicated sense memory of someone else's hair.

She said, "What? Never drink the stuff. You know that. How long have we been living together?"

"Not long," he said.

He got a glass, poured the juice and watched the foam appear. Then he wheeled a little achingly into his chair.

"Not long enough for me to notice the details," he said.

"I always think this isn't supposed to happen here. I think anywhere but here."

He said, "What?"

"A hair in my mouth. From someone else's head."

He buttered his toast.

"Do you think it only happens in big cities with mixed populations?"

"Anywhere but here." She held the strand of hair between thumb and index finger, regarding it with mock aversion, or real aversion stretched to artistic limits, her mouth at a palsied slant. "That's what I think."

"Maybe you've been carrying it since childhood." He went back to the newspaper. "Did you have a pet dog?"

"Hey. What woke you up?" she said.

It was her newspaper. The telephone was his except when she was calling the weather. They both used the computer but it was spiritually hers.

She stood at the counter looking at the hair. Then she snapped it off her fingers to the floor. She turned to the sink and ran hot water over her hand and then took the cereal bowl to the table. Birds scattered when she moved near the window.

"I've seen you drink gallons of juice, tremendous, how can I tell you?" he said.

Her mouth was still twisted from the experience of sharing some food handler's unknown life or from a reality far stranger and more meandering, the intimate passage of the hair from person to person and somehow mouth to mouth across years and cities and diseases and unclean foods and many baneful body fluids.

"What? I don't think so," she said.

Okay, she put the bowl on the table. She went to the stove, got the kettle and filled it from the tap. He changed stations on the radio and said something she missed. She took the kettle back to the stove because this is how you live a life even if you don't know it and then she scraped her teeth over her tongue again, for emphasis, watching the flame shoot blue from the burner.

She'd had to sort of jackknife away from the counter when he approached to get the butter knife.

She moved toward the table and the birds went cracking off the feeder again. They passed out of the shade beneath the eaves and flew into sunglare and silence and it was an action she only partly saw, elusive and mutely beautiful, the birds so sunstruck they were consumed by light, disembodied, turned into something sheer and fleet and scatter-bright.

She sat down and picked through sections of newspaper and realized she had no spoon. She had no spoon. She looked at him and saw he was sporting a band-aid at the side of his jaw.

She used the old dented kettle instead of the new one she'd just bought because — she didn't know why. It was an old frame house that had many rooms and working fireplaces and animals in the walls and mildew everywhere, a place they'd rented unseen, a relic of the boom years of the lumbering and shipbuilding trades, way too big, and there were creaking floorboards and a number of bent utensils dating to god knows.

She half fell out of her chair in a gesture of self-ridicule and went to the counter to get a spoon. She took the soya granules back to the table as well. The soya had a smell that didn't seem to belong to the sandy stuff in the box. It was a faint wheaty stink with feet mixed in. Every time she used the soya she smelled it. She smelled it two or three times.

"Cut yourself again."

"What?" He put his hand to his jaw, head sunk in the newspaper. "Just a nick."

She started to read a story in her part of the paper. It was an old newspaper, Sunday's, from town, because there were no deliveries here.

"That's lately, I don't know, maybe you shouldn't shave first thing. Wake up first. Why shave at all? Let your mustache grow back. Grow a beard."

"Why shave at all? There must be a reason," he said. "I want God to see my face."

He looked up from the paper and laughed in the empty way she didn't like. She took a bite of cereal and looked at another story. She tended lately to place herself, to insert herself into certain stories in the newspaper. Some kind of daydream variation. She did it and then became aware she was doing it and then sometimes did it again a few minutes later with the same or a different story and then became aware again.

She reached for the soya box without looking up from the paper and poured some granules into the bowl and the radio played traffic and talk.

The idea seemed to be that she'd have to wear out the old kettle, use it and use it until it developed rust bubbles and then and only then would it be okay for her to switch to the kettle she'd just bought.

"Do you have to listen to the radio?"

"No," she said and read the paper. "What?"

"It is such astonishing shit."

The way he stressed the t in shit, dignifying the word.

"I didn't turn on the radio. You turned on the radio," she said.

He went to the fridge and came back with a large dark fig and turned off the radio.

"Give me some of that," she said, reading the paper.

"I was not blaming. Who turned it on, who turned it off. Someone's a little edgy this morning. I'm the one, what do I say, who should be defensive. Not the young woman who eats and sleeps and lives forever."

"What? Hey, Rey. Shut up."

He bit off the stem and tossed it toward the sink. Then he split the fig open with his thumbnails and took the spoon out of her hand and licked it off and used it to scoop a measure of claret flesh out of the gaping fig skin. He dropped this stuff on his toast — the flesh, the mash, the pulp — and then spread it with the bottom of the spoon, blood-buttery swirls that popped with seedlife.

"I'm the one to be touchy in the morning. I'm the one to moan. The terror of another ordinary day," he said slyly. "You don't know this yet."

"Give us all a break," she told him.

She leaned forward, he extended the bread. There were crows in the trees near the house, taking up a raucous call. She took a bite and closed her eyes so she could think about the taste.

He gave back her spoon. Then he turned on the radio and remembered he'd just turned it off and he turned it off again.

She poured granules into the bowl. The smell of the soya was somewhere between body odor, yes, in the lower extremities and some authentic podlife of the earth, deep and seeded. But that didn't describe it. She read a story in the paper about a child abandoned in some godforsaken. Nothing described it. It was pure smell. It was the thing that smell is, apart from all sources. It was as though and she nearly said something to this effect because it might amuse him but then she let it drop — it was as though some, maybe, medieval scholastic had attempted to classify all known odors and had found something that did not fit into his system and had called it soya, which could easily be part of a lofty Latin term, but no it couldn't, and she sat thinking of something, she wasn't sure what, with the spoon an inch from her mouth.

He said, "What?"

"I didn't say anything."

She got up to get something. She looked at the kettle and realized that wasn't it. She knew it would come to her because it always did and then it did. She wanted honey for her tea even though the water wasn't boiling yet. She had a hyper-preparedness, or haywire, or hair-trigger, and Rey was always saying, or said once, and she carried a voice in her head that was hers and it was dialogue or monologue and she went to the cabinet where she got the honey and the tea bags — a voice that flowed from a story in the paper.

"Weren't you going to tell me something?"

He said, "What?"

She put a hand on his shoulder and moved past to her side of the table. The birds broke off the feeder in a wing-whir that was all b's and r's, the letter b followed by a series of vibrato r's. But that wasn't it at all. That wasn't anything like it.

"You said something. I don't know. The house."

"It's not interesting. Forget it."

"I don't want to forget it."

"It's not interesting. Let me put it another way. It's boring."

"Tell me anyway."

"It's too early. It's an effort. It's boring."

"You're sitting there talking. Tell me," she said.

She took a bite of cereal and read the paper.

"It's an effort. It's like what. It's like pushing a boulder."

"You're sitting there talking."

"Here," he said.

"You said the house. Nothing about the house is boring. I like the house."

"You like everything. You love everything. You're my happy home. Here," he said.

He handed her what remained of his toast and she chewed it mingled with cereal and berries. Suddenly she knew what he'd meant to tell her. She heard the crows in large numbers now, clamorous in the trees, probably mobbing a hawk.

"Just tell me. Takes only a second," she said, knowing absolutely what it was.

She saw him move his hand to his breast pocket and then pause and lower it to the cup. It was his coffee, his cup and his cigarette. How an incident described in the paper seemed to rise out of the inky lines of print and gather her into it. You separate the Sunday sections.

"Just tell me okay. Because I know anyway."

He said, "What? You insist you will drag this thing out of me. Lucky we don't normally have breakfast together. Because my mornings."

"I know anyway. So tell me."

He was looking at the paper.

"You know. Then fine. I don't have to tell you."

He was reading, getting ready to go for his cigarettes.

She said, "The noise."

He looked at her. He looked. Then he gave her the great smile, the gold teeth in the great olive-dark face. She hadn't seen this in a while, the amplified smile, Rey emergent, his eyes clear and lit, deep lines etched about his mouth.

"The noises in the walls. Yes. You've read my mind."

"It was one noise. It was one noise," she said. "And it wasn't in the walls."

"One noise. Okay. I haven't heard it lately. This is what I wanted to say. It's gone. Finished. End of conversation."

"True. Except I heard it yesterday, I think."

"Then it's not gone. Good. I'm happy for you."

"It's an old house. There's always a noise. But this is different. Not those damn scampering animals we hear at night. Or the house settling. I don't know," she said, not wanting to sound concerned. "Like there's something."

She read the paper, voice trailing off.

"Good. I'm glad," he said. "You need the company."

You separate the Sunday sections and there are endless identical lines of print with people living somewhere in the words and the strange contained reality of paper and ink seeps through the house for a week and when you look at a page and distinguish one line from another it begins to gather you into it and there are people being tortured halfway around the world, who speak another language, and you have conversations with them more or less uncontrollably until you become aware you are doing it and then you stop, seeing whatever is in front of you at the time, like half a glass of juice in your husband's hand.

She took a bite of cereal and forgot to taste it. She lost the taste somewhere between the time she put the food in her mouth and the regretful second she swallowed it.

He put down the juice glass. He took the pack out of his shirt and lit up a cigarette, the cigarette he'd been smoking with his coffee since he was twelve years old, he'd told her, and he let the match burn down a bit before he shook it out in meditative slow motion and put it at the edge of his plate. It was agreeable to her, the smell of tobacco. It was part of her knowledge of his body. It was the aura of the man, a residue of smoke and unbroken habit, a dimension in the night, and she lapped it off the curled gray hairs on his chest and tasted it in his mouth. It was who he was in the dark, cigarettes and mumbled sleep and a hundred other things nameable and not.

But it wasn't one of his, the hair she'd found in her mouth. Employees must wash hands before leaving toilet. It was his toast but she'd eaten nearly half of it. It was his coffee and cup. Touch his cup and he looks at you edgewise, with the formal one-eyed glare of a boxer touching gloves. But she knew she was making this up because he didn't give a damn what you did with his cup. There were plenty of cups he could use. The phone was his. The birds were hers, the sparrows pecking at sunflower seeds. The hair was somebody else's.

He said something about his car, the mileage, gesturing. He liked to conduct, to guide an extended remark with his hand, a couple of fingers jutting.

"All day yesterday I thought it was Friday."

He said, "What?"

Or you become someone else, one of the people in the story, doing dialogue of your own devising. You become a man at times, living between the lines, doing another version of the story.

She thought and read. She groped for the soya box and her hand struck the juice container. She looked up and understood he wasn't reading the paper. He was looking at it but not reading it and she understood this retroactively, that he'd been looking at it all this time but not absorbing the words on the page.

The container remained upright. She poured a little more soya into the bowl, for grainy texture and long life.

"All day yesterday I thought it was Friday."

He said, "Was it?"

She remembered to smile.

He said, "What does it matter anyway?"

She'd put a hand on his shoulder and then nearly moved it up along the back of his neck and into his hair, caressingly, but hadn't.

"I'm only saying. How does it happen that Thursday seems like Friday? We're out of the city. We're off the calendar. Friday shouldn't have an identity here. Who wants more coffee?"

She went to pour water for her tea and paused at the stove, waiting for him to say yes or no to coffee. When she started back she saw a blue jay perched atop the feeder. She stopped dead and held her breath. It stood large and polished and looked royally remote from the other birds busy feeding and she could nearly believe she'd never seen a jay before. It stood enormous, looking in at her, seeing whatever it saw, and she wanted to tell Rey to look up.

She watched it, black-barred across the wings and tail, and she thought she'd somehow only now learned how to look. She'd never seen a thing so clearly and it was not simply because the jay was posted where it was, close enough for her to note the details of cresting and color. There was also the clean shock of its appearance among the smaller brownish birds, its mineral blue and muted blue and broad dark neckband. But if Rey looked up, the bird would fly.

She tried to work past the details to the bird itself, nest thief and skilled mimic, to the fixed interest in those eyes, a kind of inquisitive chill that felt a little like a challenge.

When birds look into houses, what impossible worlds they see. Think. What a shedding of every knowable surface and process. She wanted to believe the bird was seeing her, a woman with a teacup in her hand, and never mind the folding back of day and night, the apparition of a space set off from time. She looked and took a careful breath. She was alert to the clarity of the moment but knew it was ending already. She felt it in the blue jay. Or maybe not. She was making it happen herself because she could not look any longer. This must be what it means to see if you've been near blind all your life. She said something to Rey, who lifted his head slightly, chasing the jay but leaving the sparrows unstartled.

"Did you see it?"

He half turned to answer.

"Don't we see them all the time?"

"Not all the time. And never so close."

"Never so close. Okay."

"It was looking at me."

"It was looking at you."

She was standing in place, off his left shoulder. When she moved toward her chair the sparrows flew.

"It was watching me."

"Did it make your day?"

"It made my day. My week. What else?"

She drank her tea and read. Nearly everything she read sent her into reverie.

She turned on the radio and tracked slowly along the dial, reading the paper, trying to find the weather on the radio.

He finished his coffee and smoked.

She sat over the bowl of cereal. She looked past the bowl into a space inside her head that was also here in front of her.

She folded a section of newspaper and read a line or two and read some more or didn't, sipping tea and drifting.

The radio reported news about a missile exploding mysteriously, underground, in Montana, and she didn't catch if it was armed or not.

He smoked and looked out the window to his right, where an untended meadow tumbled to the rutted dirt road that led to a gravel road.

She read and drifted. She was here and there.

The tea had no honey in it. She'd left the honey jar unopened by the stove.

He looked around for an ashtray.

She had a conversation with a doctor in a news story.

There were two miles of gravel before you reached the paved road that led to town.

She took the fig off his plate and put a finger down into it and reamed around inside for flesh.

A voice reported the weather but she missed it. She didn't know it was the weather until it was gone.

rdHe eased his head well back and rolled it slowly side to side to lessen the tension in his neck.

She sucked the finger on her fig-dipping hand and thought of things they needed from the store.

He turned off the radio.

She sipped her tea and read. She more or less saw herself talking to a doctor in the bush somewhere, with people hungry in the dust.

The cigarette was burning down in his hand.

She picked up the soya box and tipped it toward her face and smelled inside.

When he walked out of the room, she realized there was something she wanted to tell him.

Sometimes she doesn't think of what she wants to say to him until he walks out of whatever room they're in. Then she thinks of it. Then she either calls after him or doesn't and he responds or doesn't.

She sat there and finished her tea and thought of what she thought of, memory traces and flary images and a friend she missed and all the shadow-dappled stuff of an undividable moment on a normal morning going crazy in ways so humanly routine you can't even stop and take note except for the Ajax she needs to buy and the birds behind her, rattling the metal frame of the feeder.

It's such a stupid thing to do, read the newspaper and eat.

She saw him standing in the doorway.

"Have you seen my keys?"

She said, "What?"

He waited for the question to register.

"Which keys?" she said.

He looked at her.

She said, "I bought some lotion yesterday. Which I meant to tell you. It's a muscle rub. It's in a green and white tube on the shelf in the big bathroom upstairs. It's greaseless. It's a muscle rub. Rub it in, my love. Or ask me nice, I'll do it for you."

"All my keys are on one ring," he said.

She almost said, Is that smart? But then she didn't. Because what a needless thing. Because how petty it would be to say such a thing, in the morning or any time, on a strong bright day after a storm.

Copyright © 2001 by Don DeLillo

Meet the Author

Don DeLillo is the author of fifteen novels, including Zero K, Underworld, Falling Man, White Noise, and Libra. He has won the National Book Award, the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction, the Jerusalem Prize for his complete body of work, and the William Dean Howells Medal from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. In 2010, he was awarded the PEN/Saul Bellow Prize. His story collection The Angel Esmeralda was a finalist for the 2011 Story Prize and the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction.

Brief Biography

Westchester County, New York
Date of Birth:
November 20, 1936
Place of Birth:
New York City
Fordham University, 1958

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Body Artist 2.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 8 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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caffeine_high More than 1 year ago
absolutely mesmerizing. the novel starts out without proper nouns detailing a typical breakfast through an all new method of story telling. chaotic and broken up like a mind's rambling i was fascinated. the novel isnt a thriller but it will stimulate your mind
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Guest More than 1 year ago
No one captures the mundane moods and conversational threads in daily life like Don Dellilo. You read his books wondering how he can describe the millions of (usually) unobserved and unspoken expressions that make up the most ordinary communication between people. This book is satisfying and readable, and will leave you wanting more.
Guest More than 1 year ago
An acknowledged master of the literary arts, Don DeLillo once described a common thread that ran throughout his books as '...the individual faced with a vast person adrift, faced with a monumental superstructure that he can't make headway against.' Such is surely the case with his latest provocative work, 'The Body Artist.' Here we meet a woman confronted with her husband's death by his own hand. She remains in their remote home, where she eventually finds an unusual man in an abandoned third floor room. Is he real or a product of her saddened and perhaps delusional mind? Listeners will have to decide for themselves after hearing this brief but brilliant reading by Laurie Anderson. I say brief because the novel is only 125 pages, which simply illustrates that DeLillo doesn't need length to convey his intriguing thoughts. Some may be perplexed; others pleased. Most will be absorbed.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The headline says it all. Delillo's meandering plot quickly wears thin. Don't waste your time, take a nap instead, it'll produce the same result, only you'll be rested.