Feasting on carrot leaves and honeysuckle,
on hollyhock and cabbage,
darting between tangles of telephone wire,
the color of fire seen through the stained-glass window
of a cathedral,
mythic-green, paradox-blue, some with seven orange spots,
like pages ripped from the memoir of a rainbow,
classified by size or sex, born in late September, early June,
The characters in a given DeLillo novel are part of a common emanation, a metaphysical idea about language parsed through—and, crucially, by—language itself. It is not just the givers and claimers of names but the names themselves that assume the attitude of Adam. When Adam eats fruit from the tree of knowledge, he realizes that he is naked. When language becomes similarly self-aware, it realizes that its music is as essential as its meaning, and this is the core subject—the deep truth—of all DeLillo’s novels.
Dreaming, she must both “view the body” and “be the body,” an impossible unity of perception and experience. Never before seen, never before photographed. The novel shatters into incomplete, broken lines, its narrator no longer interested in a complete, orderly description of memory.