I first read White Noise the year I was fresh out of college. I remember being perplexed. It didn’t rise and fall like I anticipated. It more or less just hummed. I had come to White Noise directly from David Foster Wallace’s essay “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction,” where he quotes long sections from the novel to illustrate how DeLillo was an important monument of postmodern fiction who dealt directly with dominant U.S. televisual image culture, a rock who everyone had to flow around. Several years passed, and I found myself in Boston and picked up a copy of Libra. Then began a yearly routine of reading a new DeLillo each year. A couple of years ago I reread White Noise and loved it, now as a middle-aged father. It struck me as wonderfully funny and prescient in its treatment not just of news as data but as the family as “cradle of misinformation,” and the father’s role as ad hoc arbiter of that misinformation. “Ask your father,” etc. The scenes of family chaos dialogue are the best parts of Baumbach’s movie — the detail I was most thrilled to see embodied on screen. 

Watching his screen adaptation of White Noise this past weekend brought back a simple observation from my years of incremental DeLillo, one that I don’t think has been remarked upon, though its simplicity makes me think that surely someone has remarked upon it somewhere. I fully confess I’m not up on the DeLillo criticism. Nevertheless, original or not, here is that observation: a significant number of DeLillo’s novels are structured around adultery. For all his deserved postmodern importance, with the placeholder caveat that “postmodern importance” is itself definitionally fraught, many of his novels are structured around a woman cheating on a man, just like in Madame Bovary, Ulysses, as well as countless other more historically vanilla novels. One could argue that the central plot of realistic fiction for the first half of its existence is the marrying of young women, and the central plot of the second half of its existence is adultery, that secret within a marriage, a room inside a room. The building of this secret and its inevitable discovery forms the theme and the structure of so many novels that it’s unremarkable, like streets laid out in a grid in a city. 

And though I’m not arguing that DeLillo’s novels are really about adultery, I am struck how this simple and even rote plot device is used over and over again. In White Noise Babette is sleeping with Mink in order to obtain Dylar, the experimental drug that might combat her fear of death. Gladney discovers the truth and embarks on an absurdist revenge scene, complete with gunfire. The Names, ostensibly about international insurance markets and hidden language cults in Greece, turns on the discovery of adultery. It’s a hinge that turns the plot forward, such as it is. Cosmopolis, arguably, is structured around the protagonist’s extramarital liaisons, culminating in coitus with his actual wife at the end. Obviously the novel is not about adultery, but the day is organized, punctuated really, by the trysts. And most importantly, Underworld, the massive, most DeLillo of DeLillo novels, that’s about so, so much, ends with the protagonist confronting his wife’s lover in the wastes of Kazakhstan during a nuclear test. Despite all of the human history and technology that are depicted in DeLillo’s novels, there is so often the secret, the revelation of the secret, the male jealousy, and the enactment of revenge. That old plot technology ain’t obsolete yet.  

All of which is to say this is not what we come to DeLillo for. Ex cathedra utterances defining our contemporary life, yes, absolutely. But not this. And yet, there it is, lying beneath the tires.