Review of Underworld by Don DeLillo

Don DeLillo’s Underworld is, in many ways, the novel I thought I was going to write when I imagined my first book back in my early 20s. At that time, I had this idea for a novel tentatively titled Trash or Summa Americana, a wide-ranging postmodern exploration of trash and its intersection with violence and politics in the United States. But as I began to conceptualize it, I was intimidated by the sheer scale and complexity of the project—how to weave together multiple cities, characters, and intersecting plots into a cohesive narrative. And that’s exactly what DeLillo achieves in Underworld.

At its core, Underworld is a meditation on concealment—on the things hidden or pushed out of sight, both literally and metaphorically. DeLillo takes the notion of trash, an object of societal disdain, and elevates it to a central motif in his examination of American life. In this novel, trash is more than refuse; it’s a reflection of who we are as individuals and as a society. What we throw away, ignore, or neglect reveals the underlying structures of our lives—the hierarchy of values we hold, the transience of our existence, and the things we deem unworthy of preservation.

One of the novel’s greatest strengths is its ability to expose those elements of human experience that often remain in the shadows. DeLillo’s exploration of trash isn’t just about the physical objects we discard. It’s a broader critique of how we treat people, relationships, and even ideas with a similar disregard. The interconnectedness of trash and lives moving through time and space is a recurring theme, reminding us that what society casts aside often holds profound meaning when examined closely.

The novel also delves into themes of celibacy and institutional commitment, embodied in figures like J. Edgar Hoover and Sister Alma Edgar, both germaphobes who attempt to impose a kind of order or conformity on the world around them. Yet, they are continually frustrated in their efforts to normalize the messy, unpredictable nature of life. Their celibacy and institutional loyalties reflect a deeper form of concealment—a repression of desires and complexities that ultimately resists homogenization.

Paranoia, a staple of postmodern fiction, is another dominant theme in Underworld. Here, it is linked to the bomb and the Cold War, which paradoxically imbues life with a kind of meaning by presenting the ever-present possibility of total destruction. DeLillo captures the unease of a post-Cold War world, where the clear, collective paranoia of mutual assured destruction gives way to more fragmented, individualized fears. The novel contemplates how people seek meaning and structure in the face of an uncertain, ever-threatening future.

What’s so impressive about Underworld is how DeLillo manages to tie these themes together within a richly layered narrative. His prose captures the everyday with a kind of precision that feels both intimate and expansive. The lives he weaves together are fascinating in their ordinariness, yet they take on monumental significance in the context of the novel’s broader meditations on history, society, and the human condition.

In many respects, Underworld is a masterclass in the art of narrative structure and thematic exploration. It is both sprawling and tightly controlled, a novel that navigates the complexities of the modern world with astonishing skill. For me, this was one of the best books I’ve ever read—at once deeply personal and universal in its scope.