As if you were looking for it, here’s a nice spoof of DeLillo’s The Falling Man from the Guardian.
And now Helen Schulman has a 9/11 novel, A Day at the Beach, in which she sets herself the impossible challenge of creating sympathetic characters out of a successful, 50-year-old, Tribeca-dwelling, dance choreographer and his 36 year-old former pupil/wife.
This all makes Moshin Hamid’s book look more interesting. I read his Moth Smoke a hundred years ago and was unimpressed. So you understand my dilemma.
Where’s the one about an immigrant, Haitian Port Authority cop , by Edwidge Danticat?
Where’s the novel of the man who walks away from the towers and pretends he’s dead, leaving his family, and while escaping across the earth finally ends up dying in a fluke shipwreck off Suqutra? That one’s by Haruki Murakami.
Where’s the novel about anyone at the Pentagon? Pelecanos?
Where’s Tom Perotta’s book about the Middletown family unable to accept for a month that their loved one is definitely buried right where they’d rather not believe?
Ah fuck. They never write the books you want.