Don DeLillo is probably my favorite living writer. His books have a strange magnetic pull for me, and I find whenever I'm reading him, his prose spills over into my life. Everything I write sounds like it comes from a dim reflection of his novels. (And I don't just mean my own fiction... my work e-mails start to take on a philosophical, cold voice.)
Point Omega is short, distant, unwilling to provide closure, loosely tied to modern politics but only enough to set up bigger metaphors, lonely, and spread out philosophically across the desert where it takes place.
At what point does our consciousness pile upon itself enough memories and thoughts and ideas such that it is now only capable of being conscious of itself. That is, as far as I can tell, the omega point.
