I’ve been doing a string of ‘books I can’t remember well enough to properly review’ updates, but for Don DeLillo’s novella, The Body Artist, I can remember next to nothing, so I’m going to have to jog my memory a little.

The Body Artist is one of DeLillo’s short, style-over-plot reads (which I may like less thanks to the disappointing Point Omega) and according to the jacket, it’s about a young performance artist, Lauren Hartke, grieving over the death of her much older husband. Now that I’ve been reminded of this, I remember that The Body Artist was a good, surreal tale, if a bit too long in places (which I’m amazed DeLillo does no matter what length his books are). Before this nudge, all I could remember is that there’s a line from the main woman about taking a crap—and that I thought the word ‘crap’ didn’t fit for her character—and that The Body Artist was the type of vague that works. Maybe I’ll claim the same thing about this review. Three stars. Barely.