DeLillo offers a document of twin forces of the Cold War and American Culture, compelling that "swerve from evenness" in which he finds events and people both wondrous and horrifying.
"Underworld" opens with a breathlessly graceful prologue set during the final game of the Giants-Dodgers pennant race in 1951. Written in what DeLillo calls "super-omniscience" the sentences sweep from young Cotton as he jumps the gate to the press box, soars over the radio waves, turns to the diamond, slides in on a fast ball, pops into the stands where J. Edgar Hoover is sitting with a drunken Jackie Gleason and a splenetic Frank Sinatra, and learns of the second detonation of a nuclear bomb. It's an absolutely thrilling literary moment. When Bobby Thomson hits Branca's pitch into the outstretched hand of Cotter - the "shot heard around the world" - and Jackie Gleason pukes on Sinatra's shoes, the events of the next few decades are set in motion, all threaded together by the baseball as it passes from hand to hand.
Through fragments and interlaced stories - including those of highway killers, artists, celebrities, conspiracists, gangsters, nuns and sundry others - DeLillo creates a fragile web of connected experience, a communal Zeitgeist that encompasses the messy whole of five decades of American life, wonderfully distilled.