She spooned some yogurt out of the carton, seemed to pause, deep in thought.

"This happened before," she said finally.

"What happened before?"

"Eating yogurt, sitting here, talking about deja vu."

"I don't want to hear this."

"The yogurt was on my spoon. I saw it in a flash. The whole experience. Natural, whole-milk, low-fat."

WHITE NOISE goes down smoothly, but it leaves the bitter aftertaste we normally associate with paranoia-chic music by David Byrne or Brian Eno. The book is replete with humorous murder scenes, letters to convicts, modern sex, and wiseacre kids. Meet Heinrich, Jack's 14-year-old balding son by a previous marriage: a difficult boy who has one bright moment organizing survival units during the evacuation; he asks his father challengingly, "What is radio? What is the principle of radio? Go ahead, explain. You're sitting in the middle of this circle of people. They use pebble tools. They eat grubs. Explain a radio."

DeLillo has written six other novels, and if they're anywhere near as good as this one he must be used to elaborate critical praise. But he probably wouldn't appreciate learned. NewYork Times Book Review style praise as much as some kind of zany practical joke snuck, into his television set.