In The Cyclist, Berberian connected love, sex, food, poetry and terrorism. An intriguing combination, kind of like an awkward diamond--maybe a little off-putting at first, but easier to look at over time.
With Das Kapital, Berberian's second book, possibly (but maybe not, considering the publishing industry nowadays--I only question this because the work is nowhere near as tight as the first book), Berberian takes the lyrical writing of The Cyclist down a notch (or three) and instead of presenting the collision of the personal and political, Berberian attacks the economic and fatalist. The intellectual bend here is even more apparent with the occasional footnotes that, for the most part, explain what seems to make sense by itself in the text (or presumes a reader's unwillingness to look things up), and of course the presentation of Wayne, a trader in failure and market crashes rather than gains. Making out well in the ruin of a tree-cutting firm, he entwines himself into the life of the Corsican, who is also entangled with Alix, a Mersailles resident who also happens to be an email correspondent (and cyberlover) of Wayne's.
In his depiction, Berberian presents Wayne as a hardcore trader who is also a hardcore reader and culturalist, echoing far too closely to DeLillo works like Cosmopolis and Americana, maybe even a hint of Falling Man, but Berberian is nowhere near prepared to take a DeLillo plunge and explore the intricacies and counterproductive pulls of the subject matter and its metaphors, but Berberian is instead limited to the superficial play of capitalism and Marxism, love and passion, etc. My earlier suggestion that this may not be Berberian's second work, but maybe an earlier work picked up with the success of The Cyclist is a mere assumption, but overall the writing here didn't seem as tight as in the debut novel. Berberian obviously wants to be a writer of importance, addressing some of the issues of today, but he does so with little sense of the past or the history of a culture--rather, Berberian wants to play with what we have, which is an admirable trait, but begs too much comparison to DeLillo to really make this work stand wisely on its own.
If and when Berberian's next book comes out, I will no doubt snatch it up and give it a thorough read, for he has good stuff going on in here, but this book doesn't seem to come together by the end to make all of my efforts to read this so necessary.