Don Delillo Novel Novels & Stories

Come pick a bouquet from these Flowers in a Dumpster. Eidolon Avenue: The First Feast by Jonathan Winn—where the secretly guilty go to die. All thrown into their own private hell as every cruel choice, every deadly mistake, every drop of spilled blood is remembered, resurrected and relived to feed the ancient evil that lives on Eidolon Avenue. Through a Mirror, Darkly by Kevin Lucia—Are there truths within the books we read? What if the book delves into the lives of the very town you live in? People you know? Or thought you knew. These are the questions a bookstore owner face when a mysterious book shows up.

The light at their summits was more than rumor—Elena saw it flickering against the dawn, refracted through a broken lens of morning ice, as if the air was learning to be warm again. They approached in stages, like time travelers: first the exurbs, where the subdivisions had gone under a decade ago, and then the dead mall, so picked over only the anchor stores remained—great blocks that looked, in this light, almost holy. Here, graffiti covered every inch of wall. Damon stopped to read at intervals, translating the runes of the survivors’ code—a language of ciphers, skulls, a persistent spiral. Donovan ignored the walls. He watched the rooftops, eyes narrow, fingers unconsciously flexing like

It might just be an awkward feeling. "If so, you'll go back to the town you came from if you have completed your novel manuscript?" Dennis's gaze was so shady, looking at me. Dennis's eyes divert my feelings. I just realized the way Dennis looked at me was almost the same as Delon looked at me. Even the shape of Dennis's eyes is almost similar to Delon's. This makes my attention distracted. I am not satisfied to look Dennis's eyes because his dark gaze reminds me of Delon.

The way she wouldn’t stick around to chat with him, even when she was handing him money and he was trying to stare down her shirt. We were eating pot noodles every night and watching television on a stuttering black and white. She kept a chair jammed up against the door. I remember the nightmares I had back then. On those nights, in this place. The door shuddering, the chair bending apart. Me stiff on a warped mattress, too bare beneath stained sheets. Wet spreading into the firm, soft space beneath my hips, making the fabric stick to my skin. My eyes opening on a pure blackness, total and close. A blackness that breathed, that saw me. Scorching my eyes and filling my mouth, climbing into me

The window faced north, so it never got any sun. When Antonio came to visit, he stood at the doorway for a long time, stunned. "Don Moretti, this place—" "Don't call me that again," Lorenzo cut him off, his voice unnaturally calm. "I'm not one anymore." Antonio opened his mouth to speak, but in the end, he swallowed his words. He put down the food and supplies he had brought, then hesitated for a moment before pulling a photo from his pocket. "We took this during our previous investigation," Antonio said. "Ms. Bianchi… She looked well."

Traveling was the building. He did not say this. He drank his coffee. Don was reading the Norwegian novel—he had two chapters left, and he read with the quality of someone who was near the end of something good and was experiencing the specific pleasure of being very close to a completed understanding. The novel had been his Christmas book, but he had rationed it carefully, reading only a few chapters each day, stretching it so that it would last through the week between Christmas and New Year. Now it was January, and the novel was almost finished.

“She got hooked on drugs, her mind barely holding together. She often hallucinated. She was either found raving or weeping, but one thing was for sure, she kept repeating Vincent’s name and yours. “About three days after Vincent was executed, she was found drowned near a remote pier in the port.” I listened quietly, my eyes darting to the Alps outside the window. The year-round snow was pure and untainted. One fell to the weight of the law, ruined and disgraced. The other lost herself in quiet despair, silent and unseen. This ending, more than any dramatic death, showed life’s harsh reality and fate’s irony. “Is everything cleared?” I asked. “Yes, Ms. Mancini. Evelyn and everything tied to t

"Don Pierce, I think you need to see this surveillance footage... You need to brace yourself." Dante's heart skipped a beat as he opened the video Andrew had sent with an intense sense of unease. This was surveillance footage from inside the auction hall. While he was disciplining those spoiled brats, I was in the crowd protecting my belly, carefully moving closer to him. Dante tried hard to recall the scene from that time, but his attention had been entirely focused on Nina's condition. He had not paid any attention to what I was doing there. However, the next second, his pupils constricted sharply and he shot to his feet.

"When you were looking at that magazine, your eyes were glued to this ring. Couldn't look away." "So I bought it for you." There was a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He had no idea I'd only stared at the ring so he could pay off his debt faster. The cold of the diamond crept up my finger and into my chest. I shivered. But he didn't need my help. Did he? The voice on the phone had just called him Don. The Angelo I knew was a broke kid drowning in mob debt. What a joke. "Three whole years," My voice came out cold. "A Don playing dirt-poor with me. Was it fun?"

Outside, everything was ice and frost Dorian’s version of safe. He had wanted her out of the city while the heat cooled. A dozen news cycles had passed since the trial, since the last arrest. But silence, she learned, was never safe; it was an echo chamber. She walked back to the desk. Highlighted the whole paragraph. Cut it. Typed again. “This book is not a confession. It is a record. Of power, of violence, of velvet and blood. And of the people who lived inside it some survived. Some did not.”