The ex-Marine who defected to Russia and returned (and yet who called himself a Marxist even more doggedly back in the States with his Russian wife) is, in DeLillo's version, the completely marginal man, utterly without qualities. Lee Harvey Oswald is, of course, the center, the Libra of the book-his scales tipped lifelong by ugliness, outsider-ness, a smothering mother, a desperate need to distinguish himself somehow.
And with the style honed by his most recent novels, White Noise and The Names (which this book seems closest to), he is able to construct a half-speculation, half-tragedy very finely. DeLillo's fascination with conspiracy, apocalypse, and public events-tesselated from a hundred chips of separate, small human misery-turns to the Kennedy assassination almost inevitably.
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