The novel Ratner’s Star was pitched to me, in the few outlets that have posted their reviews of the text online, as a Menippean satire, a work that is usually in prose, multi-perspectival, in that it makes ideology or interior mental states targets of fun rather than individuals, and I can’t conjure a third trait to complete the Rule. It strikes me that this is a useful means of taxonimising a good heft of the post-war American literary milieu, at least those who I’ve read enough of in order to identify what they have in common with De Lillo. I won’t name them here because it should be fairly clear that when I talk about maximalist male authors with more interest in critiquing systems/order than the steady clockwork of characterisation, that I’m hardly talking about Franzen.
This is an abstruse way into Ratner’s Star, because I’m a little stumped for what to talk about. Spelling out the satire of the novel, its brilliant deconstruction of the mechanisms of scientific enquiry, its shortcomings, its ideological blind spots, would be too programmatic, not to mention futile in its re-hashing of the case, though I do think it’s worth mentioning that the hermetic, dry humour of the novel (its re-hashing similarly useless), is as funny, smatteringly laughing out loud in places funny as Beckett or Douglas Adams.
I may just have to quote from a characterless invective towards the novel’s close that takes a global view of an eclipse forecasted by an ancient civilisation wiped out by nuclear war before our current ‘civilisation’ rose in its wake, and essentially spells out some of what the novel’s mission statement may be taken to be:
“To be Outside is to know an environment infinitely less complex than the one you left. Far from wishing to revisit misery, you are nonetheless able to experience once again some of the richness of inborn limits. You see our rapt entanglement in all around us, the press to measure and delve…Why are you here? To unsnarl us from our delimiting senses? To offer protective cladding against our cruelty and fear? The pain, the life-cry speak our most candid wonders. To out-premise these, by whatever tektite whirl you’ve mastered, would be to make us hypothetical, a creature of our own pretending, as are you.”
The paragraphing there is non-existent, the words of the section of which the above forms a part just spills and spills for pages. The rhythm is compulsive, the outlook is unrelenting, visceral, all the more so for its stepping out of the familiar novelistic framework, for its purging of all characters and scenarios we’ve been acclimatised to and for its filming a close-up of De Lillo’s monologuing face. Any other novelist would’ve been well advised to quell such faffery, as it is more likely than not to be heavy handed Malicking, but he pulls it off, and its pretty damn astounding.