Try as one might, it is difficult to avoid Don DeLillo forever. He may not be a bestseller, but his books seem—at times anyway—to be ubiquitous. His new novel, White Noise,[1] is his eighth, and it has all but one of its predecessors to keep it company on bookstore shelves. For DeLillo has, somehow, managed to become a member of that elite circle of writers whose books are kept in print. It’s strange: there are titles by Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and Faulkner that are not easy to locate even at reputable literary bookstores; but at many such establishments one can, without any trouble, find the novels of DeLillo in attractive, attention-getting Vintage paperback editions, their uniform front covers decorated with striking, surrealistic, black-and-white photographs, their back covers (and front matter) crammed with critical testimony that this fellow is, no question...

 
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