Well I finished White Noise by Don DeLillo.

First novel read on the Kindle. A satisfying milestone in itself. The book is impressive, and makes a statement about literature in its time (mid-1980s), and as I've said elsewhere it's clearly a book by "a Major Talent writing in His Prime." It is certainly one of the texts that expounders and expositors will point to (or at) in their discussions of Postmodern fiction. It contains many of the themes and telling character details of PMF, to be sure – a family populated by variously related (and unrelated), precocious, mostly verbal kids, none of whom belong jointly to the protagonist and his current spouse. The exception to the verbal precocity is (of course) a kid who doesn't speak at all. It contains characters who verbalize a lot more than they actually DO anything, who are seemingly completely caught up in expounding on their inner lives. Well not entirely. They have occupations, these characters, but at times these occupations seem a little surreal – It is necessary, it seems, that the prot. can't just be a professor of Victorian poetry or some vanilla subject, he has to be head of the Hitler Studies department. It is necessary that a jester/chorus character talk like Woody Allen (a LOT like Woody Allen; he practically has "Smartass New York Jew" tattooed on his brow like a mezuzah). It is necessary that an adolescent male character deconstruct everything to the point where you wouldn't bother asking Heinrich (that's necessary too) "what time is it" even if it meant maybe missing an appointment. You'd miss it anyway as a result of his diatribe on "does anybody really know what time it is" or worse "what is time?"
I don't mean to sound as if I don't respect the book – it's extraordinarily well-written and powerful. Perhaps some of its predictability comes from the fact that so much of what constitutes it has – over the 25 or so years since its publication – found its way into much other literature (not that I think DeLillo invented this stuff, it was just less common in 1985 than it is now). It is a book in which ideas jostle to be taken seriously, but you're not sure which ones are being taken seriously by the author. Certainly most of the people in the book can't be taken terribly seriously, unlike some of Yates's or Carver's folks, who are a lot more like you & me than these wackos.