good, but his ideas were not as useful asnhis actions. He thought of poetry as if itnwere a kind of medicine. Cheerfully,nstoutheartedly, doing measurable goodnas he went, MacLeish kept pounding outna mission that flourished and shouldnBenign NeglectnDon DeLillo: The Names; Alfred A.nKnopf; New York.nby Joseph SchwartznJ-iike his previous work, Don Delillo’snseventh novel. The Names, willnreceive more attention from select criticsnthan from the intelligent reading public.nIt is about time to inquire as to thenreason for this. One critic has claimednthat DeLillo receives less attention thannhe should because he writes about aspectsnof the United States which mostnreaders are unwilling to face. Yet, therenare many distinguished writers taken seriouslynby the intelligent public and criticsnalike who have regularly said things wendislike hearing. Indeed, the argumentncould be made that significant writers,nby definition, do this. DeLillo himself hasnsuggested that people would rather readn”house and yard” fiction (i.e., read aboutnthemselves), so as to give significance tontheir own Uves. But “house and yard” hasnbeen the staple of fiction, the identifiablenmiddle-class art form, since the 18th century.nSo we will have to look elsewherenfor explanations of reader neglect ofnDeLillo. The Names, since it is typical ofnhis work, is a good place to start.nOne point that can be raised is that hisninvention is not imaginative enough—nnot enough is at stake. His partisans willntake issue with this charge, yet I think itnis true and a plausible explanation for thentedium experienced while pushing one’snway through the novel. On one level, henappears to be fully inventive. In ThenDr. Schwartz is with the department ofnEnglish at Marquette University.nhave died in the thirties. Art was for himnsomething that elevated the spirit ofnright-thinking people. He was not intellectuallynequipped to understand differencesnof opinion, which I take to be thenquintessence of modem liberalism. DnNames the terrain is the Middle East,nGreece, and India. The principal character,nJames Axton, is a risk analyst for anmultinational corporation involved in thenrisks of war and peace. His marriage isnfailing. He is caught up in his fascinationnwith a murder cult. Unknowingly, henworks for the CIA. God’s plenty here itnwould seem. But, as in the works of PaulnBowles—the writer DeLillo most remindsnme of in this novel—^the effect isnennui rather than excitement. His inventionnis not daring enough to make thenreader care about anyone or anythingnthat happens. “My life is going by and Incan’t get a grip on it. It eludes me, it defeatsnme… Nothing adds up.” Since thisnis such a tiresome complaint, worn outnwith the mere telling by countiess 20thcenturyn”heroes” for whom not a tinker’sndamn is given, one must examine thencomplaint more carefiilly. Putting asidenall lurking boredom as cleanly as I cannand knoviong James Axton as well as De­nLillo will allow, I still wonder why Inshould have the slightest concern for himnor for his adventures. That “nothing addsnup” is a commentary on Axton’s witlessness,nand not, as it is intended, an indictmentnof the times. One could place Axtonnin the orderly world of the Middle Agesnor in the fixed primitive society of a SouthnSeas tribe, and the same words would stillnbe muttered. He would be ineffectual innany setting, tight or loose. In a hundrednguises he has already bored you at dinnernparties, receptions, and other social settings.nThe annoying murmur is always thensame: his life is going by and he cannotnget a grip on it. Perhaps he deserves hisnfate. He is thin—drawn out beyond hisnability to bear the pull of such stretching.nnnThe other characters are even lessncompelling. They have names, but onendoesn’t get to know them in any humannway. They are shadowy and deliberatelynfunctional, but the fimction served isnoften unclear. Taken together, they are antiresome lot of expatriates, albeit a newnbreed. Instead of being abroad for culturen(as if that is the only reason why one maynever be abroad), they are there for businessnpurposes. And if they’re not businessnpeople, they are perennial tourists, or anmixture of both.nTo be a tourist is to escape accountability.nErrors and fellings don’t clingnto you the way they do back home. Younare able to drift across continents andnlanguages, suspending the operationnof sound thought Tourism is the marchnof stupidity… Being stupid is the pattern,nthe level and the norm.nEvents are shapeless; one belongs to annarmy of foOls. The grey two-dimensionalnshapes are intentiotial. DeDllo’s own analysisnof the deliberate absence of characternas we have come to understand the termnremains unconvincing to me.nA lot of characters have become purenact. The whole point in certain kindsnof modem writing is that charactersnsimply do what they do. There isn’t angreat deal of thought or sentiment ornliterary history tied up in the actionsnof characters. Randomness is alwaysnhard to absorb.nRandomness is not only diflScult to absorb,nit is precisely what art rebels against.nDelillo’s view of character explains whynhe admires Thomas Pynchon and WilliamnGaddis. In connection with DeLillo’sncomment, I urge the reader to glance atnSaul Bellow’s Nobel Prize address, especiallynnoting his view of Alain Robbe-nGrillef s comment that characters are obsoletenin fiction. The contrast is instructive.nA. second reason for DeLillo’s feilurento win the attention his partisans feel isnrightiy his can be explained by his misusenof suggestion.nThis is what we bring to the temple,nSiiinnJuly 1983n