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1 Beaverton Literature- A to Z

Falling Man

by

Falling Man Cover

ISBN13: 9781416546061
ISBN10: 1416546065
Condition: Standard
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Excerpt

Chapter One

It was not a street anymore but a world, a time and space of falling ash and near night. He was walking north through rubble and mud and there were people running past holding towels to their faces or jackets over their heads. They had handkerchiefs pressed to their mouths. They had shoes in their hands, a woman with a shoe in each hand, running past him. They ran and fell, some of them, confused and ungainly, with debris coming down around them, and there were people taking shelter under cars.

The roar was still in the air, the buckling rumble of the fall. This was the world now. Smoke and ash came rolling down streets and turning corners, busting around corners, seismic tides of smoke, with office paper flashing past, standard sheets with cutting edge, skimming, whipping past, otherworldly things in the morning pall.

He wore a suit and carried a briefcase. There was glass in his hair and face, marbled bolls of blood and light. He walked past a Breakfast Special sign and they went running by, city cops and security guards running, hands pressed down on gun butts to keep the weapons steady.

Things inside were distant and still, where he was supposed to be. It happened everywhere around him, a car half buried in debris, windows smashed and noises coming out, radio voices scratching at the wreckage. He saw people shedding water as they ran, clothes and bodies drenched from sprinkler systems. There were shoes discarded in the street, handbags and laptops, a man seated on the sidewalk coughing up blood. Paper cups went bouncing oddly by.

The world was this as well, figures in windows a thousand feet up, dropping into free space, and the stink of fuel fire, and the steady rip of sirens in the air. The noise lay everywhere they ran, stratified sound collecting around them, and he walked away from it and into it at the same time.

There was something else then, outside all this, not belonging to this, aloft. He watched it coming down. A shirt came down out of the high smoke, a shirt lifted and drifting in the scant light and then falling again, down toward the river.

They ran and then they stopped, some of them, standing there swaying, trying to draw breath out of the burning air, and the fitful cries of disbelief, curses and lost shouts, and the paper massed in the air, contracts, resumés blowing by, intact snatches of business, quick in the wind.

He kept on walking. There were the runners who'd stopped and others veering into sidestreets. Some were walking backwards, looking into the core of it, all those writhing lives back there, and things kept falling, scorched objects trailing lines of fire.

He saw two women sobbing in their reverse march, looking past him, both in running shorts, faces in collapse.

He saw members of the tai chi group from the park nearby, standing with hands extended at roughly chest level, elbows bent, as if all of this, themselves included, might be placed in a state of abeyance.

Someone came out of a diner and tried to hand him a bottle of water. It was a woman wearing a dust mask and a baseball cap and she withdrew the bottle and twisted off the top and then thrust it toward him again. He put down the briefcase to take it, barely aware that he wasn't using his left arm, that he'd had to put down the briefcase before he could take the bottle. Three police vans came veering into the street and sped downtown, sirens sounding. He closed his eyes and drank, feeling the water pass into his body taking dust and soot down with it. She was looking at him. She said something he didn't hear and he handed back the bottle and picked up the briefcase. There was an aftertaste of blood in the long draft of water.

He started walking again. A supermarket cart stood upright and empty. There was a woman behind it, facing him, with police tape wrapped around her head and face, yellow caution tape that marks the limits of a crime scene. Her eyes were thin white ripples in the bright mask and she gripped the handle of the cart and stood there, looking into the smoke.

In time he heard the sound of the second fall. He crossed Canal Street and began to see things, somehow, differently. Things did not seem charged in the usual ways, the cobbled street, the cast-iron buildings. There was something critically missing from the things around him. They were unfinished, whatever that means. They were unseen, whatever that means, shop windows, loading platforms, paint-sprayed walls. Maybe this is what things look like when there is no one here to see them.

He heard the sound of the second fall, or felt it in the trembling air, the north tower coming down, a soft awe of voices in the distance. That was him coming down, the north tower.

The sky was lighter here and he could breathe more easily. There were others behind him, thousands, filling the middle distance, a mass in near formation, people walking out of the smoke. He kept going until he had to stop. It hit him quickly, the knowledge that he couldn't go any farther.

He tried to tell himself he was alive but the idea was too obscure to take hold. There were no taxis and little traffic of any kind and then an old panel truck appeared, Electrical Contractor, Long Island City, and it pulled alongside and the driver leaned toward the window on the passenger's side and examined what he saw, a man scaled in ash, in pulverized matter, and asked him where he wanted to go. It wasn't until he got in the truck and shut the door that he understood where he'd been going all along.

Copyright © 2007 by Don DeLillo

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Average customer rating based on 1 comment:

lukas, November 2, 2013 (view all comments by lukas)
Can authors makes sense of 9/11? Should they even try? I suppose if you're an acclaimed NYC writer (Pynchon, Safron Foer), it's kind of your duty. If anyone's earned the right to tackle such a difficult, divisive topic, it's DeLillo, who over the past 3 decades has mapped the paranoia, dread and secret history of the republic. As much as I admire him, the books tend to run together and I can really only remember them by subject: the Oswald one ("Libra"), the airborne toxic even one ("White Noise"), the Dylan one ("Great Jones Street") and the BIG one ("Underworld"). "Falling Man," like "Cosmopolis" and "Point Omega" is short and compact, but doesn't leave much of an impact. It's a noble effort, but it's too cold and distant to really make sense of the Event. PS: Check out the cover of "Underworld." It's eerie.
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Product Details

ISBN:
9781416546061
Author:
DeLillo, Don
Publisher:
Scribner Book Company
Subject:
Literary
Subject:
Victims of terrorism
Subject:
September 11 Terrorist Attacks, 2001
Subject:
Psychological fiction
Subject:
Literature-A to Z
Subject:
pulitzer; national book award; national book critics circle award; pen/faulkner; pen/saul bellow; jerusalem prize; howells medal; best of 2007; september 11; 9/11; performance art; underworld; white noise; point omega; cosmopolis; david cronenberg;
Copyright:
Edition Description:
Trade Paperback
Publication Date:
20080631
Binding:
TRADE PAPER
Grade Level:
General/trade
Language:
English
Pages:
272
Dimensions:
8 x 5.25 in

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Related Subjects

Children's » Activities » General
Children's » General
Fiction and Poetry » Literature » A to Z
Health and Self-Help » Health and Medicine » Medical Specialties

Falling Man Used Trade Paper
0 stars - 0 reviews
$4.95 In Stock
Product details 272 pages Scribner Book Company - English 9781416546061 Reviews:
"Staff Pick" by ,

Falling Man is Don DeLillo's exquisite, memorable take on 9/11. Somewhat more stylistically spare than his earlier books, Falling Man nonetheless feels like the book DeLillo was meant to write; themes he has addressed throughout his body of work — terrorism, religion, signs and symbols — come together eerily in this novel, which is by far the most significant work of fiction about 9/11 to date.

"Review" by , "The clearest vision yet of what it felt like to live through that day."
"Review" by , "Falling Man brings at least a measure of memory, tenderness and meaning to all that howling space."
"Review" by , "DeLillo is at his best...a keen imaginer...[writing] with exactitude and lyrical originality."
"Review" by , "Haunting...elegiac...masterful."
"Synopsis" by , Falling Man is a magnificent, essential novel about the event that defines turn-of-the-century America. It begins in the smoke and ash of the burning towers and tracks the aftermath of this global tremor in the intimate lives of a few people. “DeLillo’s most affecting novel yet...A dazzling, phosphorescent work of art.”—Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times

“The clearest vision yet of what it felt like to live through that day.” —Malcolm Jones, Newsweek

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

“A brilliant new novel....Don DeLillo continues to think about the modern world in language and images as quizzically beautiful as any writer.” — San Francisco Chronicle

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