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The Crying of Lot 49
Suffused with rich satire, chaotic brilliance, verbal turbulence and wild humor, The Crying of Lot 49 opens as Oedipa Maas discovers that she has been made executrix of a former lover's estate. The performance of her duties sets her on a strange trail of detection, in which bizarre characters crowd in to help or confuse her. But gradually, death, drugs, madness, and marriage combine to leave Oedipa in isolation on the threshold of revelation, awaiting the Crying of Lot 49.
152 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1966
About the author
Thomas Pynchon
63 books6,494 followersThomas Ruggles Pynchon Jr. is an American novelist noted for his dense and complex novels. His fiction and non-fiction writings encompass a vast array of subject matter, genres and themes, including history, music, science, and mathematics. For Gravity's Rainbow, Pynchon won the 1973 U.S. National Book Award for Fiction.
Hailing from Long Island, Pynchon served two years in the United States Navy and earned an English degree from Cornell University. After publishing several short stories in the late 1950s and early 1960s, he began composing the novels for which he is best known: V. (1963), The Crying of Lot 49 (1966), and Gravity's Rainbow (1973). Rumors of a historical novel about Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon had circulated as early as the 1980s; the novel, Mason & Dixon, was published in 1997 to critical acclaim. His 2009 novel Inherent Vice was adapted into a feature film by Paul Thomas Anderson in 2014. Pynchon is notoriously reclusive from the media; few photographs of him have been published, and rumors about his location and identity have circulated since the 1960s. Pynchon's most recent novel, Bleeding Edge, was published on September 17, 2013.
Hailing from Long Island, Pynchon served two years in the United States Navy and earned an English degree from Cornell University. After publishing several short stories in the late 1950s and early 1960s, he began composing the novels for which he is best known: V. (1963), The Crying of Lot 49 (1966), and Gravity's Rainbow (1973). Rumors of a historical novel about Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon had circulated as early as the 1980s; the novel, Mason & Dixon, was published in 1997 to critical acclaim. His 2009 novel Inherent Vice was adapted into a feature film by Paul Thomas Anderson in 2014. Pynchon is notoriously reclusive from the media; few photographs of him have been published, and rumors about his location and identity have circulated since the 1960s. Pynchon's most recent novel, Bleeding Edge, was published on September 17, 2013.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 6,391 reviews
March 22, 2007
so imagine you're browsing through a bookstore on a lazy saturday afternoon.
you stop in the pynchon section, and there, out of the corner of your eye, you see this *guy* and he's checking you out. you think, wow! this is one for the movies! does this actually happen? (this is a sexually oriented biased review, sorry)
you proceed to chat, laughing at the length of gravity's rainbow. and you go next door with your new books to grab a cup of coffee, which turns into dinner, whuch turns in to crepes at this great little shop, which turns into a long walk, which turns into a bottle of syrah in your living room over twelve hours later.
and you're so compelled. the conversation is amazing, he's SO dynamic, he tells good stories even though it has the tendency to be stream of consciousness, he's convoluted and mysterious and you never want this night to end. he makes random allusions that you always pretend to recognize but don't really understand. he draws random doodles on scraps of paper, napkins, bathroom walls, foreheads of strangers, anywhere he can get his point across. you can't get out of your mind how brilliant this guy must be and how lucky you are to have him, in all his overeducated and hypnotic glory, sitting on your couch.
and with all the wine in your head, the evening takes a turn for the intimate. it gets a much heavier that you would ever expect for a first encounter like this, especially because you just met this guy (scandalous!!!) but you feel so wrapped up in his world that you just go along with it and enjoy. and trust me, you do enjoy it. and right as your about to come to the full, uh, realization of your enjoyment, he says, "oh god!" and stops and looks at you awkwardly. and you recognize at that moment that the enjoyment is um, bust, and you will never have that full realization.
that's what reading this book is like. but trust me, the encounter is well worth it.
you stop in the pynchon section, and there, out of the corner of your eye, you see this *guy* and he's checking you out. you think, wow! this is one for the movies! does this actually happen? (this is a sexually oriented biased review, sorry)
you proceed to chat, laughing at the length of gravity's rainbow. and you go next door with your new books to grab a cup of coffee, which turns into dinner, whuch turns in to crepes at this great little shop, which turns into a long walk, which turns into a bottle of syrah in your living room over twelve hours later.
and you're so compelled. the conversation is amazing, he's SO dynamic, he tells good stories even though it has the tendency to be stream of consciousness, he's convoluted and mysterious and you never want this night to end. he makes random allusions that you always pretend to recognize but don't really understand. he draws random doodles on scraps of paper, napkins, bathroom walls, foreheads of strangers, anywhere he can get his point across. you can't get out of your mind how brilliant this guy must be and how lucky you are to have him, in all his overeducated and hypnotic glory, sitting on your couch.
and with all the wine in your head, the evening takes a turn for the intimate. it gets a much heavier that you would ever expect for a first encounter like this, especially because you just met this guy (scandalous!!!) but you feel so wrapped up in his world that you just go along with it and enjoy. and trust me, you do enjoy it. and right as your about to come to the full, uh, realization of your enjoyment, he says, "oh god!" and stops and looks at you awkwardly. and you recognize at that moment that the enjoyment is um, bust, and you will never have that full realization.
that's what reading this book is like. but trust me, the encounter is well worth it.
February 6, 2018
Appetite for Deconstruction
Most readers approach a complex novel, like a scientist approaches the world or a detective approaches a crime - with an appetite for knowledge and understanding, and a methodology designed to satiate their appetite.
“The Crying of Lot 49” (“TCL49”) presents a challenge to this type of quest for two reasons.
One, it suggests that not everything is knowable and we should get used to it.
Second, the novel itself fictionalizes a quest which potentially fails to allow the female protagonist, Oedipa Maas, to understand the situation confronting her.
Arguably, Pynchon serves up a work that reveals more about method than it does about the subject matter of the quest, the world around us.
Who Dunnit?
If this were a who-dunnit, we don’t end up learning who dunnit.
It is all hunt and no catch.
If we are seeking the metaphysical truth, we do not find it.
The truth might even have escaped or got away.
It might never have been there in the first place.
Or there might not be something as simple as the truth.
To this extent, “TCL49” might be a novel about futility, rather than success.
Get It?
Inevitably, this affects the way any review approaches the novel.
It is not simply a matter of whether the reviewer “got it” and conveys this to their readers.
Even if you think you got it, there is no guarantee that your understanding reflects what Pynchon intended (behind the scenes).
You could be wrong. You might even be making the very mistake that “TCL49” might be trying to caution us against.
Pierce Inverarity’s Will
The novel commences with Oedipa learning that she has been appointed Co-Executor of the Estate of California real estate mogul and ex-lover, Pierce Inverarity.
An Executor is a person who inherits the assets and liabilities of a person (the Testator) on their death and has to distribute the net assets of their Estate (their "Legacy") to the Beneficiaries identified in the Testator’s Will (their “Last Will and Testament”).
Often, people only find out that they have been appointed an Executor when the Testator has died and their Will has been located.
However, it is a good idea to let somebody know during your lifetime that you wish to appoint them as your Executor, because they might not wish to accept the burden after your death.
It is implied in “TCL49” that Pierce has actually died (the legal letter says that he died “back in the spring”), but it does not automatically follow from learning about your appointment that the Testator has died.
This is My Last Will and Testament
A Will is literally an expression of your intentions (your will) with respect to your property. You give instructions or directions to your Executor.
It is often called a Testament, the etymology of which is related to the Ten Commandments or Testimony issued by God.
In a very loose metaphorical way, the novel sets up Pierce’s Will as the Will of God, something which Oedipa is and feels compelled to obey.
There is a potential clue in her reaction to the legal letter:
"Oedipa stood in the living room, stared at by the greenish dead eye of the TV tube, spoke the name of God, tried to feel as drunk as possible."
Whether or not Pierce might be symbolic of God, Oedipa’s actions in the novel are dictated and driven by his Will.
Pierce Inverarity’s Name
Pierce’s name is also pregnant with implication, if not necessarily definitive meaning.
The noun “arity” means the number of arguments a function or operation can take; in logic, it determines the number of inferences that may be deduced from a particular fact.
“Verarity” is not a word in its own right, but it is quite close to “veracity”, which has lead some commentators to infer that it suggests a concern with the truth.
When you add the prefix “in-“ (as a negative) to it, the word could be concerned with the absence of truth.
When you add the first name, Pierce, to the equation, some have suggested that it implies the piercing of the truth (or untruths).
Alternatively, the prefix “in-” might mean “into” which might imply the piercing or penetration of the truth.
There are also suggestions that “Inver” might be a pun on the word ”infer” or the process of inference.
Sign of the Times
I haven’t seen any references to the American philosopher Charles S. Peirce (different spelling) who made an enormous contribution to the field of semiotics (the study of signs and sign processes).
If there is any link, then Pierce’s full name might imply “unreliable or untruthful signs”.
Charles S. Peirce also recognised that logical operations could be carried out by electrical switching circuits (as long ago as 1886).
This concept is the foundation of “logic gates” and digital computers (of which, more later):
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Logic_gate
”All Manner of Revelations”
When Oedipa discovers her obligations as Executor, she is initially skeptical:
" ‘…aren't you even interested?’
‘In what?’
‘In what you might find out.’
As things developed, she was to have all manner of revelations.
Hardly about Pierce Inverarity, or herself; but about what remained yet had somehow, before this, stayed away."
Originally Oedipa saw herself as a pensive Rapunzel-like figure, waiting for someone to ask her, in the sixties, to “let down her hair”.
Pierce arrives, but is not quite what she is looking for. Despite a romantic holiday in Mexico, she remains in her tower:
"Such a captive maiden, having plenty of time to think, soon realizes that her tower, its height and architecture, are like her ego only incidental: that what really keeps her where she is is magic, anonymous and malignant, visited on her from outside and for no reason at all.
“Having no apparatus except gut fear and female cunning to examine this formless magic, to understand how it works, how to measure its field strength, count its lines of force, she may fall back on superstition, or take up a useful hobby like embroidery, or go mad, or marry a disk jockey.
“If the tower is everywhere and the knight of deliverance no proof against its magic, what else?"
The Tristero System
Oedipa’s appointment as Executor is the beginning of a series of revelations (or, in the Biblical sense, Revelations) that “end her encapsulation in her tower”.
The trigger for these revelations is Pierce’s stamp collection:
"… his substitute often for her - thousands of little colored windows into deep vistas of space and time… She had never seen the fascination."
The stamps turn out to be “forgeries”, postage stamps used not by the official postal service, but by an underground rival or illegitimate shadow called “Tristero”.
No sooner does Oedipa learn of the existence of Tristero, then she starts to find evidence that it still exists on the streets of California: its symbol is a muted post horn, adding a mute to the horn of its traditional private enterprise rival in nineteenth century Europe, Thurn and Taxis.
Her quest is to learn the significance of Tristero and how much Pierce knew about it.
“W.A.S.T.E.”
Tristero’s modern American manifestation is “W.A.S.T.E.”, which we eventually learn stands for “We Await Silent Tristero's Empire”.
It delivers correspondence between various disaffected underground, alternative and countercultural groups, bohemians, hippies, anarchists, revolutionaries, non-conformists, protesters, students, geeks, artists, technologists and inventors, all of whom wish to communicate with each other without government knowledge or interference.
The postal system confers privacy, confidentiality on their plots and plans.
Its couriers wear black, the colour of anarchy.
Yet, from the point of view of Tristero, it is not the content of the correspondence that matters, it is its delivery.
It’s almost as if these companies are early proof that the medium is more important than the message.
All postal systems grew from early attempts to guarantee safe passage of diplomatic correspondence between different States and Rulers in Europe.
Indeed, Tristero’s rival, Thurn and Taxis, was an actual postal service and is still an extremely wealthy family in Germany.
A World of Silence
Silence is important to any non-conformist or underground movement, not only from the point of secrecy, but in the sense that Dr. Winston O'Boogie (A.K.A. John Lennon) subsequently maintained that, “A conspiracy of silence speaks louder than words”.
It is the desire for silence that unites the underground in opposition to the Government and the mainstream political culture:
"For here were God knew how many citizens, deliberately choosing not to communicate by U. S. Mail.
"It was not an act of treason, nor possibly even of defiance. But it was a calculated withdrawal, from the life of the Republic, from its machinery.
"Whatever else was being denied them out of hate, indifference to the power of their vote, loopholes, simple ignorance, this withdrawal was their own, un-publicized, private.
"Since they could not have withdrawn into a vacuum (could they?), there had to exist the separate, silent, unsuspected world."
[Note the idiomatic but ambiguous use of the expression “God knows how many”, as if God or Tristero or Pierce did actually know how many.]
From Aloof Tower to Underground
Oedipa is a relatively middle class, middle aged woman, who married a used car salesman and DJ for a radio station called KCUF, after her affair with Pierce.
Her quest drags her from her tower and exposes her to another side of life, just as life in America (well, Berkeley, San Francisco) was starting to get interesting (1966).
She is a stranger in a strange land, having grown up and been educated during the conservative, Cold War 50’s:
"...she had undergone her own educating at a time of nerves, blandness and retreat among not only her fellow students but also most of the visible structure around and ahead of them, this having been a national reflex to certain pathologies in high places only death had had the power to cure, and this Berkeley was like no somnolent Siwash out of her own past at all, but more akin to those Far Eastern or Latin American universities you read about, those autonomous culture media where the most beloved of folklores may be brought into doubt, cataclysmic of dissents voiced, suicidal of commitments chosen, the sort that bring governments down."
While Oedipa is ostensibly trying to get to the bottom of Tristero, she is actually going on a journey of self-discovery.
The narrative forces her down from her tower of withdrawal to street-level engagement and then ultimately into the underground.
Bit by bit, she ceases to define herself in terms of her husband or Pierce, but in terms of her own identity.
Like the symbol of Tristero, she has been silenced, her horn has been muted, she has had to stand by her man and be secondary.
Her adventure frees her from the chains of middle class conformity.
It is a preparation for a new life of autonomy.
Scientific Method
Oedipa’s methodology is that of a flawed scientist or detective.
She uses logic to make sense of what she perceives.
She constantly asks the question “why?”
She builds and applies logical systems where she processes information in a simplistic binary "either-or", "zero or one" fashion (pre-empting computers), according to whether it proves a point or disproves it.
She applies the “Law of the Excluded Middle”: "Everything must either be or not be." (Or the Law of Noncontradiction: "Nothing can both be and not be.")
She learns things and processes them as best she can.
But she misses opportunities and fails to investigate clues she ought to. She is human. She is fallible.
She reads old books with different typesetting and sees “y’s where i’s should’ve been”.
“I can’t read this,” she says.
So she learns the limits of logic. And she learns the appeal of nonconformity and freedom and communication.
Despite the masculine nature of the metaphor, she removes the mute from her horn.
The Crying of Lot 49
The eponymous Crying of Lot 49 is the auction of the forged Tristero stamps that takes place in the last pages of the novel.
Oedipa discovers that a major bidder (possibly associated with Tristero) has decided to attend the auction personally, rather than bid remotely “by the book”.
The novel ends with the anticipation of Oedipa and the reader discovering the identity of the bidder for the stamps.
Is it Tristero? Is it even Pierce?
Pynchon deprives us of this revelation.
This has frustrated many readers. However, it suggests that this was not the most important revelation that was happening in the novel.
The real revelation is Oedipa’s discovery of herself.
She sees “I” where previously she has seen only “why”.
At the same time, she discovers America and its diversity, which is far greater than the white bread community who are content with the U.S. Mail:
"She had dedicated herself, weeks ago, to making sense of what Inverarity had left behind, never suspecting that the legacy was America."
Ultimately, it is Pierce’s and Pynchon’s will that the novel and her journey end this way.
Most readers approach a complex novel, like a scientist approaches the world or a detective approaches a crime - with an appetite for knowledge and understanding, and a methodology designed to satiate their appetite.
“The Crying of Lot 49” (“TCL49”) presents a challenge to this type of quest for two reasons.
One, it suggests that not everything is knowable and we should get used to it.
Second, the novel itself fictionalizes a quest which potentially fails to allow the female protagonist, Oedipa Maas, to understand the situation confronting her.
Arguably, Pynchon serves up a work that reveals more about method than it does about the subject matter of the quest, the world around us.
Who Dunnit?
If this were a who-dunnit, we don’t end up learning who dunnit.
It is all hunt and no catch.
If we are seeking the metaphysical truth, we do not find it.
The truth might even have escaped or got away.
It might never have been there in the first place.
Or there might not be something as simple as the truth.
To this extent, “TCL49” might be a novel about futility, rather than success.
Get It?
Inevitably, this affects the way any review approaches the novel.
It is not simply a matter of whether the reviewer “got it” and conveys this to their readers.
Even if you think you got it, there is no guarantee that your understanding reflects what Pynchon intended (behind the scenes).
You could be wrong. You might even be making the very mistake that “TCL49” might be trying to caution us against.
Pierce Inverarity’s Will
The novel commences with Oedipa learning that she has been appointed Co-Executor of the Estate of California real estate mogul and ex-lover, Pierce Inverarity.
An Executor is a person who inherits the assets and liabilities of a person (the Testator) on their death and has to distribute the net assets of their Estate (their "Legacy") to the Beneficiaries identified in the Testator’s Will (their “Last Will and Testament”).
Often, people only find out that they have been appointed an Executor when the Testator has died and their Will has been located.
However, it is a good idea to let somebody know during your lifetime that you wish to appoint them as your Executor, because they might not wish to accept the burden after your death.
It is implied in “TCL49” that Pierce has actually died (the legal letter says that he died “back in the spring”), but it does not automatically follow from learning about your appointment that the Testator has died.
This is My Last Will and Testament
A Will is literally an expression of your intentions (your will) with respect to your property. You give instructions or directions to your Executor.
It is often called a Testament, the etymology of which is related to the Ten Commandments or Testimony issued by God.
In a very loose metaphorical way, the novel sets up Pierce’s Will as the Will of God, something which Oedipa is and feels compelled to obey.
There is a potential clue in her reaction to the legal letter:
"Oedipa stood in the living room, stared at by the greenish dead eye of the TV tube, spoke the name of God, tried to feel as drunk as possible."
Whether or not Pierce might be symbolic of God, Oedipa’s actions in the novel are dictated and driven by his Will.
Pierce Inverarity’s Name
Pierce’s name is also pregnant with implication, if not necessarily definitive meaning.
The noun “arity” means the number of arguments a function or operation can take; in logic, it determines the number of inferences that may be deduced from a particular fact.
“Verarity” is not a word in its own right, but it is quite close to “veracity”, which has lead some commentators to infer that it suggests a concern with the truth.
When you add the prefix “in-“ (as a negative) to it, the word could be concerned with the absence of truth.
When you add the first name, Pierce, to the equation, some have suggested that it implies the piercing of the truth (or untruths).
Alternatively, the prefix “in-” might mean “into” which might imply the piercing or penetration of the truth.
There are also suggestions that “Inver” might be a pun on the word ”infer” or the process of inference.
Sign of the Times
I haven’t seen any references to the American philosopher Charles S. Peirce (different spelling) who made an enormous contribution to the field of semiotics (the study of signs and sign processes).
If there is any link, then Pierce’s full name might imply “unreliable or untruthful signs”.
Charles S. Peirce also recognised that logical operations could be carried out by electrical switching circuits (as long ago as 1886).
This concept is the foundation of “logic gates” and digital computers (of which, more later):
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Logic_gate
”All Manner of Revelations”
When Oedipa discovers her obligations as Executor, she is initially skeptical:
" ‘…aren't you even interested?’
‘In what?’
‘In what you might find out.’
As things developed, she was to have all manner of revelations.
Hardly about Pierce Inverarity, or herself; but about what remained yet had somehow, before this, stayed away."
Originally Oedipa saw herself as a pensive Rapunzel-like figure, waiting for someone to ask her, in the sixties, to “let down her hair”.
Pierce arrives, but is not quite what she is looking for. Despite a romantic holiday in Mexico, she remains in her tower:
"Such a captive maiden, having plenty of time to think, soon realizes that her tower, its height and architecture, are like her ego only incidental: that what really keeps her where she is is magic, anonymous and malignant, visited on her from outside and for no reason at all.
“Having no apparatus except gut fear and female cunning to examine this formless magic, to understand how it works, how to measure its field strength, count its lines of force, she may fall back on superstition, or take up a useful hobby like embroidery, or go mad, or marry a disk jockey.
“If the tower is everywhere and the knight of deliverance no proof against its magic, what else?"
The Tristero System
Oedipa’s appointment as Executor is the beginning of a series of revelations (or, in the Biblical sense, Revelations) that “end her encapsulation in her tower”.
The trigger for these revelations is Pierce’s stamp collection:
"… his substitute often for her - thousands of little colored windows into deep vistas of space and time… She had never seen the fascination."
The stamps turn out to be “forgeries”, postage stamps used not by the official postal service, but by an underground rival or illegitimate shadow called “Tristero”.
No sooner does Oedipa learn of the existence of Tristero, then she starts to find evidence that it still exists on the streets of California: its symbol is a muted post horn, adding a mute to the horn of its traditional private enterprise rival in nineteenth century Europe, Thurn and Taxis.
Her quest is to learn the significance of Tristero and how much Pierce knew about it.
“W.A.S.T.E.”
Tristero’s modern American manifestation is “W.A.S.T.E.”, which we eventually learn stands for “We Await Silent Tristero's Empire”.
It delivers correspondence between various disaffected underground, alternative and countercultural groups, bohemians, hippies, anarchists, revolutionaries, non-conformists, protesters, students, geeks, artists, technologists and inventors, all of whom wish to communicate with each other without government knowledge or interference.
The postal system confers privacy, confidentiality on their plots and plans.
Its couriers wear black, the colour of anarchy.
Yet, from the point of view of Tristero, it is not the content of the correspondence that matters, it is its delivery.
It’s almost as if these companies are early proof that the medium is more important than the message.
All postal systems grew from early attempts to guarantee safe passage of diplomatic correspondence between different States and Rulers in Europe.
Indeed, Tristero’s rival, Thurn and Taxis, was an actual postal service and is still an extremely wealthy family in Germany.
A World of Silence
Silence is important to any non-conformist or underground movement, not only from the point of secrecy, but in the sense that Dr. Winston O'Boogie (A.K.A. John Lennon) subsequently maintained that, “A conspiracy of silence speaks louder than words”.
It is the desire for silence that unites the underground in opposition to the Government and the mainstream political culture:
"For here were God knew how many citizens, deliberately choosing not to communicate by U. S. Mail.
"It was not an act of treason, nor possibly even of defiance. But it was a calculated withdrawal, from the life of the Republic, from its machinery.
"Whatever else was being denied them out of hate, indifference to the power of their vote, loopholes, simple ignorance, this withdrawal was their own, un-publicized, private.
"Since they could not have withdrawn into a vacuum (could they?), there had to exist the separate, silent, unsuspected world."
[Note the idiomatic but ambiguous use of the expression “God knows how many”, as if God or Tristero or Pierce did actually know how many.]
From Aloof Tower to Underground
Oedipa is a relatively middle class, middle aged woman, who married a used car salesman and DJ for a radio station called KCUF, after her affair with Pierce.
Her quest drags her from her tower and exposes her to another side of life, just as life in America (well, Berkeley, San Francisco) was starting to get interesting (1966).
She is a stranger in a strange land, having grown up and been educated during the conservative, Cold War 50’s:
"...she had undergone her own educating at a time of nerves, blandness and retreat among not only her fellow students but also most of the visible structure around and ahead of them, this having been a national reflex to certain pathologies in high places only death had had the power to cure, and this Berkeley was like no somnolent Siwash out of her own past at all, but more akin to those Far Eastern or Latin American universities you read about, those autonomous culture media where the most beloved of folklores may be brought into doubt, cataclysmic of dissents voiced, suicidal of commitments chosen, the sort that bring governments down."
While Oedipa is ostensibly trying to get to the bottom of Tristero, she is actually going on a journey of self-discovery.
The narrative forces her down from her tower of withdrawal to street-level engagement and then ultimately into the underground.
Bit by bit, she ceases to define herself in terms of her husband or Pierce, but in terms of her own identity.
Like the symbol of Tristero, she has been silenced, her horn has been muted, she has had to stand by her man and be secondary.
Her adventure frees her from the chains of middle class conformity.
It is a preparation for a new life of autonomy.
Scientific Method
Oedipa’s methodology is that of a flawed scientist or detective.
She uses logic to make sense of what she perceives.
She constantly asks the question “why?”
She builds and applies logical systems where she processes information in a simplistic binary "either-or", "zero or one" fashion (pre-empting computers), according to whether it proves a point or disproves it.
She applies the “Law of the Excluded Middle”: "Everything must either be or not be." (Or the Law of Noncontradiction: "Nothing can both be and not be.")
She learns things and processes them as best she can.
But she misses opportunities and fails to investigate clues she ought to. She is human. She is fallible.
She reads old books with different typesetting and sees “y’s where i’s should’ve been”.
“I can’t read this,” she says.
So she learns the limits of logic. And she learns the appeal of nonconformity and freedom and communication.
Despite the masculine nature of the metaphor, she removes the mute from her horn.
The Crying of Lot 49
The eponymous Crying of Lot 49 is the auction of the forged Tristero stamps that takes place in the last pages of the novel.
Oedipa discovers that a major bidder (possibly associated with Tristero) has decided to attend the auction personally, rather than bid remotely “by the book”.
The novel ends with the anticipation of Oedipa and the reader discovering the identity of the bidder for the stamps.
Is it Tristero? Is it even Pierce?
Pynchon deprives us of this revelation.
This has frustrated many readers. However, it suggests that this was not the most important revelation that was happening in the novel.
The real revelation is Oedipa’s discovery of herself.
She sees “I” where previously she has seen only “why”.
At the same time, she discovers America and its diversity, which is far greater than the white bread community who are content with the U.S. Mail:
"She had dedicated herself, weeks ago, to making sense of what Inverarity had left behind, never suspecting that the legacy was America."
Ultimately, it is Pierce’s and Pynchon’s will that the novel and her journey end this way.
April 28, 2008
The kind of book that makes people hate books. Literally one of, if not, the worst story I've ever read. A classic English majors only book, aka people like talking about this book and that they "get it" make you feel like their intellectual inferior. This book is the literary equivalent of some hipster noise band that everyone knows sucks but people will say they are good just to be in the "know."
I must say this before I get a bunch of messages from people looking down their nose at me. I do "get it" I got an A on the paper I wrote on this book but what I "get" more is that there is nothing to "get." It's the act of "getting it" and being part of that special little crew that does that makes people enjoy this book. They enjoy more looking down upon those simpletons who don't "get" it than they enjoy the story. Get what I'm saying?
If you enjoy art that makes a statement, try this book. If you enjoy books for the story they tell and the messages you can extract from that story, avoid this book. It's up to you.
I must say this before I get a bunch of messages from people looking down their nose at me. I do "get it" I got an A on the paper I wrote on this book but what I "get" more is that there is nothing to "get." It's the act of "getting it" and being part of that special little crew that does that makes people enjoy this book. They enjoy more looking down upon those simpletons who don't "get" it than they enjoy the story. Get what I'm saying?
If you enjoy art that makes a statement, try this book. If you enjoy books for the story they tell and the messages you can extract from that story, avoid this book. It's up to you.
December 5, 2019
“This is America, you live in it, you let it happen. Let it unfurl.”
Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49 is not for everyone (mostly I know this because I’ve recommended this book before and been dismayed when it was not loved). I do, however, get a lot of comments on my W.A.S.T.E. t-shirt. I’ve been reading a lot of books lately which are not easily classifiable, and The Crying of Lot 49 definitely fits that mold. For me, it is a wild ride through layers of conspiracy, alternative history (mostly in the form of an ‘underground’ postal system), some heavy-duty neurosis and 60s LA suburbia. When you have all that, it’s just a waste of time to talk about whether or not there’s a real plot. And it’s so funny!
V is another one of Pynchon’s masterpieces that I really love, but The Crying of Lot 49 (written decades before its time in 1966) is both much shorter and more accessible.
I’ll end with a favorite passage from this book which speaks to whether you should believe in other version(s) of reality: “I came," she said, "hoping you could talk me out of a fantasy." Cherish it!" cried Hilarious, fiercely. "What else do any of you have? Hold it tightly by its little tentacle, don't let the Freudians coax it away or the pharmacists poison it out of you. Whatever it is, hold it dear, for when you lose it you go over by that much to the others. You begin to cease to be.”
Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49 is not for everyone (mostly I know this because I’ve recommended this book before and been dismayed when it was not loved). I do, however, get a lot of comments on my W.A.S.T.E. t-shirt. I’ve been reading a lot of books lately which are not easily classifiable, and The Crying of Lot 49 definitely fits that mold. For me, it is a wild ride through layers of conspiracy, alternative history (mostly in the form of an ‘underground’ postal system), some heavy-duty neurosis and 60s LA suburbia. When you have all that, it’s just a waste of time to talk about whether or not there’s a real plot. And it’s so funny!
V is another one of Pynchon’s masterpieces that I really love, but The Crying of Lot 49 (written decades before its time in 1966) is both much shorter and more accessible.
I’ll end with a favorite passage from this book which speaks to whether you should believe in other version(s) of reality: “I came," she said, "hoping you could talk me out of a fantasy." Cherish it!" cried Hilarious, fiercely. "What else do any of you have? Hold it tightly by its little tentacle, don't let the Freudians coax it away or the pharmacists poison it out of you. Whatever it is, hold it dear, for when you lose it you go over by that much to the others. You begin to cease to be.”
January 26, 2012
My first excursion into the Pynchonesque…and it left me disorientated, introspective and utterly confused about how exactly I feel about it. I’m taking the cowards way out and giving it three stars even though that makes me feel like I’m punting the responsibility football and doing my best imitation of an ostrich when trouble walks by.
I am going to have to re-read this. My assumption is that I began this book taking Pynchon a little too lightly. I decided to start my exploration of Pynchon here because it's widely considered his most “accessible” work. I figured even as addled as my brain is with wine sediment and Milk Duds, my big boy education would serve as an adequate navigator on this little journey.
Well, around page 21, I started getting that “I’m lost, have you seen my momma” feeling and there's not a single character in this story trustworthy enough to ask directions on how to get back to the plot.
This much I think I know:
Oedipa Mass (get used to monikers like that as every character’s name is a play on words) is a clever, self-motivated middle-aged housewife from California who isn’t above shagging the occasional stranger not her husband (hell it’s the 60’s). Oedipa’s ex-shag partner, Pierce Inverarity, dies uber-rich and leaves her as co-executor of his estate. Inverarity is a practical joker extraordinaire and so the idea that everything may not be as it seems is teed up immediately. However, Oedipa is the kind of woman who loves a mystery and she feels compelled to play the part that Inverarity has created for her.
If it was really Pierce's attempt to leave an organized something behind after his own annihilation, then it was part of her duty, wasn't it, to bestow life on what had persisted, to try to be what Driblette was, the dark machine in the centre of the planetarium, to bring the estate into pulsing stelliferous Meaning, all in a soaring dome around her.
Those first 20 pages were cake and I was feeling very much in control.
Then page 21……..through the rest of the novel (about 180 pages) send Oedipa (and the reader) on a fragmented, surreal, allusion-soaked, reality-bent/warped/twisted sojourn that felt a bit like a David Lynch/David Mamet collaboration where nothing and no one is anywhere close to what they seem. Dense, compact, multi-layered prose and some memorable oddball characters make the confusion plenty entertaining, but grasping the central core of the piece was rather elusive (at least for me).
The framing, edgework of the story is as historical mystery centered on an alleged vast conspiracy involving a secret, underground postal carrier network known as Trystero. The calling card/icon of this shadowy organization is:
Which is a mockery of the horn symbolizing the real life postal carrier known as Thurn and Taxis.
Eventually, I gathered that the major theme being explored by Pynchon is the untrustworthiness of communication and that it’s impossible to verify information because the source is always distorted from the standpoint of the observer. Thus communication, when filtered through the lens of the recipient, often brings more confusion than enlightenment and more questions than answers. “Though she knew even less about radios than about Southern Californians, there were to both outward patterns a hieroglyphic sense of concealed meaning, of an intent to communicate.”
At least I think that is what Pynchon was getting at in this book. My problem was that I didn’t clue into that until late into the story and by that time I was simply riding the crest of the enjoyable language and mini-scenes into the finish line. Having now read the book, I feel like if I were to go back and read it again knowing what I now know, I will be able to get far more out of it. I guess I might also realize that I am reading too much into it and the emperor really has no clothes.
For now, I will give Pynchon the benefit of the doubt. Based on his reputation, he has certainly earned it.
Even given my less than perfect understanding of the nuances moving through the narrative, there is much to enjoy. There are some wonderful scenes and character interactions that I loved For example, the The Courier’s Tragedy is a play that Oedipa sees that actually touches on the themes of the wider novel. I thought it was fascinating.
There is also some magnificent passages that I could read simply to enjoy the language.
Everybody who says the same words is the same person if the spectra are the same only they happen differently in time, you dig? But the time is arbitrary. You pick your zero point anywhere you want, that way you can shuffle each person's time line sideways till they all coincide. Then you'd have this big, God, maybe a couple hundred million chorus saying 'rich, chocolaty goodness' together, and it would all be the same voice.Language like that is always a pleasure to read. However, without the glue of understanding all that Pynchon was attempting to say, my enjoyment was somewhat muted.
That’s just me.
I enjoyed the experience of reading this and, as I mentioned to a GR friend the other day, I have thought better of this book during the days since I finished this than I did while I was actually reading it. That tells me that the book affected me and seeped into my brain more than I was able to consciously detect. Maybe that’s how Pynchon works, I’m not sure. However, it is a question I plan to investigate by visiting his other works as well as returning to this one.
3.0. Recommended (though a bit confused).
May 7, 2024
The book version of the 1997 movie The Game by Michael Douglas
Imagine spending a quiet evening at home with your significant other when the phone rings informing you that your former love, Pierce Inverarity, has died. He has appointed Y-O-U to gather his assets under the terms of his will. Except (small detail) he was one of the wealthiest people on the planet!
Oedipa Maas obviously doesn’t stay with Inverarity. So is he trying to reward her internal goodness, rubbing it in that she could have had her hands on all of his delicious assets, or something else?
This is a clever, little novel adorned with humor and social justice commentary. While Oedipa is trying to solve the mystery of Trystero, she seemingly flits from one bizarre phenomenon to another.
Although this book is creatively refreshing, it is a bit overly ambitious and devolves into confusion at times.
This book is like Tom Buchanan forcefully grabbing you by your arm, turning you about while having a roaring good time (albeit things do go off the rails at times).
When was the last time you inventoried your life?
The Green Light at the End of the Dock (How much I spent):
Softcover Text - $7.69 from Amazon
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Imagine spending a quiet evening at home with your significant other when the phone rings informing you that your former love, Pierce Inverarity, has died. He has appointed Y-O-U to gather his assets under the terms of his will. Except (small detail) he was one of the wealthiest people on the planet!
Oedipa Maas obviously doesn’t stay with Inverarity. So is he trying to reward her internal goodness, rubbing it in that she could have had her hands on all of his delicious assets, or something else?
This is a clever, little novel adorned with humor and social justice commentary. While Oedipa is trying to solve the mystery of Trystero, she seemingly flits from one bizarre phenomenon to another.
Although this book is creatively refreshing, it is a bit overly ambitious and devolves into confusion at times.
This book is like Tom Buchanan forcefully grabbing you by your arm, turning you about while having a roaring good time (albeit things do go off the rails at times).
When was the last time you inventoried your life?
The Green Light at the End of the Dock (How much I spent):
Softcover Text - $7.69 from Amazon
Connect With Me!
Blog Twitter BookTube Facebook Insta
March 31, 2018
Y'know I feel sorry for Pynchon. He's gained a reputation as a 'difficult writer'. This problem plagues Faulkner as well. People go into Pynchon's and Faulkner's novels and quickly realise that things happen very differently in here and thus, unnerved by the shock of the new, hastily retreat. It's a pity. My best advice for reading Pynchon? Stop trying to understand everything. If a passage, or a page, or hell, even a whole chapter doesn't make any sense, don't bother yourself over it. Just move on. The only person who's ever fully understood a Pynchon novel is Pynchon.
There's a couple of ways to read The Crying of Lot 49. You can read it as a mystery novel, you can read it as a meditation on 1960s post-war America (à la Breakfast of Champions) and you can also read it as a great satire on the postmodernist novel. I read it as the latter. If you stand back from this novel and try to see it as Pynchon essentially taking the piss out of all the tropes and plots and characters often found in postmodernist literature, then I think it starts making the most sense.
The novel follows Oedipa Maas who, after discovering a strange trumpet-like symbol on the wall of a bathroom, goes on an incredibly convoluted and complex journey to unmask the symbol's true meaning. Despite the novel's brevity (only 142 pages), Pynchon's trademark dense but intricate prose turns what is essentially a long short story into a fully-fledged novel, packed with a vast cast of characters and an equal amount of plots.
Pynchon has a lot of fun with The Crying of Lot 49. You can almost hear him sniggering as he types out names such as Genghis Cohen and Dr. Hilarius and Mike Fallopian. He isn't exactly being subtle about the inherent ridiculousness of this novel. His comical names are mirrored in the novel's many comic moments.
A stand-out scene from early on in the novel describes Oedipa's attempt to glean answers from the lawyer, Metzger. He suggests that for every question she asks she must take off an item of clothing. Oedipa excuses herself to use the bathroom, where she proceeds in donning every item of clothing she can find. She then traipses back into Metzger's office looking like, as Pynchon brilliantly puts it, 'a beach ball with feet'.
There are innumerable scenes like that in Lot 49. However, whilst this is a fantastic comical satire, I found myself somewhat longing for more. The narrative is incredibly episodic. Oedipa trundles along from scene to scene, meeting a new character at every stop and unlocking a small part of the novel's greater mystery, like a sort of postmodernist Canterbury Tales. Pynchon also just adores digression, which I know is something of his trademark, but when the novel is 142 pages long, you'd think that he would have reigned it in slightly.
Overall I found The Crying of Lot 49 to be a fun satirical romp. This novel is often suggested as a good starting place for Pynchon virgins, mainly due to its brevity. And I think that's fairly solid advice. Read it whichever way you want to, or even try to find a new angle to approach it from. But most importantly, have fun, that's what Pynchon would want.
There's a couple of ways to read The Crying of Lot 49. You can read it as a mystery novel, you can read it as a meditation on 1960s post-war America (à la Breakfast of Champions) and you can also read it as a great satire on the postmodernist novel. I read it as the latter. If you stand back from this novel and try to see it as Pynchon essentially taking the piss out of all the tropes and plots and characters often found in postmodernist literature, then I think it starts making the most sense.
The novel follows Oedipa Maas who, after discovering a strange trumpet-like symbol on the wall of a bathroom, goes on an incredibly convoluted and complex journey to unmask the symbol's true meaning. Despite the novel's brevity (only 142 pages), Pynchon's trademark dense but intricate prose turns what is essentially a long short story into a fully-fledged novel, packed with a vast cast of characters and an equal amount of plots.
Pynchon has a lot of fun with The Crying of Lot 49. You can almost hear him sniggering as he types out names such as Genghis Cohen and Dr. Hilarius and Mike Fallopian. He isn't exactly being subtle about the inherent ridiculousness of this novel. His comical names are mirrored in the novel's many comic moments.
A stand-out scene from early on in the novel describes Oedipa's attempt to glean answers from the lawyer, Metzger. He suggests that for every question she asks she must take off an item of clothing. Oedipa excuses herself to use the bathroom, where she proceeds in donning every item of clothing she can find. She then traipses back into Metzger's office looking like, as Pynchon brilliantly puts it, 'a beach ball with feet'.
There are innumerable scenes like that in Lot 49. However, whilst this is a fantastic comical satire, I found myself somewhat longing for more. The narrative is incredibly episodic. Oedipa trundles along from scene to scene, meeting a new character at every stop and unlocking a small part of the novel's greater mystery, like a sort of postmodernist Canterbury Tales. Pynchon also just adores digression, which I know is something of his trademark, but when the novel is 142 pages long, you'd think that he would have reigned it in slightly.
Overall I found The Crying of Lot 49 to be a fun satirical romp. This novel is often suggested as a good starting place for Pynchon virgins, mainly due to its brevity. And I think that's fairly solid advice. Read it whichever way you want to, or even try to find a new angle to approach it from. But most importantly, have fun, that's what Pynchon would want.
September 1, 2019
The world is full of signs and symbols and emblems and omens… One just should learn to read them…
“The seventh angel sounded his trumpet, and there were loud voices in heaven…” Revelation 11:15
Thomas Pynchon is a cognoscente of all sorts of conspiracies and The Crying of Lot 49, a somewhat sad post-noir burlesque, set amidst trashy cultural and behavioural patterns, concerns itself with a weird global postal conspiracy.
Conspiracy theories exist in the heads of those who are afraid to face the complex and, quite often, inimical reality.
Only the simplest things ring unambiguous and true in the multifarious world…
Beneath the notice, faintly in pencil, was a symbol she'd never seen before, a loop, triangle and trapezoid.
“The seventh angel sounded his trumpet, and there were loud voices in heaven…” Revelation 11:15
Thomas Pynchon is a cognoscente of all sorts of conspiracies and The Crying of Lot 49, a somewhat sad post-noir burlesque, set amidst trashy cultural and behavioural patterns, concerns itself with a weird global postal conspiracy.
Decorating each alienation, each species of withdrawal, as cufflink, decal, aimless doodling, there was somehow always the post horn. She grew so to expect it that perhaps she did not see it quite as often as she later was to remember seeing it.
Conspiracy theories exist in the heads of those who are afraid to face the complex and, quite often, inimical reality.
When those kids sing about ‘She loves you,’ yeah well, you know, she does, she’s any number of people, all over the world, back through time, different colors, sizes, ages, shapes, distances from death, but she loves. And the ‘you’ is everybody.
Only the simplest things ring unambiguous and true in the multifarious world…
December 15, 2021
Brief thoughts after a 2nd reading:
Even better than I remembered. Having a thematic understanding already allowed me to focus on the literal plot of Oedipa's wild travels among crazy characters - often laugh out loud funny - then return to consider how these settings and contrivances serve a symbolic purpose. Absolutely amazing just how well-built Pynchon's prose truly is, to serve these dual purposes. He seems to be making the point that what we perceive and how we perceive it is influenced by the channel we entertain, i.e. the official US Postal Service vs the shadowy secret Tristero WASTE system, or the difference between communal mass media signals vs sublimated firsthand personal experience. And the extrapolation of these issues of communication into issues of society— and the multiplication of layers of doubt, questionable premises, paranoia— it grows staggering, magnificent, mindblowing. I really dig this stuff, and this might become a regular re-read for me.
~
Pynchon, here in his exuberant "put-me-on-the-mapper," is an antic clown who cartwheeled into my life juggling with words in a way that astounds as it entertains. No one can talk this way but somehow I feel I think this way, a whirly-burly hurdy-gurdy of words and ideas fragmenting and recombining and popping and fizzing inside my skull until it might just crack. Reading this whirlwind of a book is like some bizarre accupressure along those mental fault lines, with Pynchon knuckle-rapping and pressing at various weak spots to see what reaction he can get.
Mr. Enigma through and through, Pynchon cries out to be read symbolically (among the cast names: Oedipa, Fallopian, Driblette) but obscures his leads so thoroughly that everything becomes a game to play, a puzzle to solve, a code to decipher. That's fun! That's maddening! That's expert craftsmanship.
5 stars. Inimitable and admirable, Pynchon writes circles around the competition. And this is far and away his most inviting novel (though the fun and games take on a dreadful sense of foreboding in time). There is a first-order plot and a second-order plot, and it's a wild ride bouncing between the two.
Even better than I remembered. Having a thematic understanding already allowed me to focus on the literal plot of Oedipa's wild travels among crazy characters - often laugh out loud funny - then return to consider how these settings and contrivances serve a symbolic purpose. Absolutely amazing just how well-built Pynchon's prose truly is, to serve these dual purposes. He seems to be making the point that what we perceive and how we perceive it is influenced by the channel we entertain, i.e. the official US Postal Service vs the shadowy secret Tristero WASTE system, or the difference between communal mass media signals vs sublimated firsthand personal experience. And the extrapolation of these issues of communication into issues of society— and the multiplication of layers of doubt, questionable premises, paranoia— it grows staggering, magnificent, mindblowing. I really dig this stuff, and this might become a regular re-read for me.
~
Pynchon, here in his exuberant "put-me-on-the-mapper," is an antic clown who cartwheeled into my life juggling with words in a way that astounds as it entertains. No one can talk this way but somehow I feel I think this way, a whirly-burly hurdy-gurdy of words and ideas fragmenting and recombining and popping and fizzing inside my skull until it might just crack. Reading this whirlwind of a book is like some bizarre accupressure along those mental fault lines, with Pynchon knuckle-rapping and pressing at various weak spots to see what reaction he can get.
Mr. Enigma through and through, Pynchon cries out to be read symbolically (among the cast names: Oedipa, Fallopian, Driblette) but obscures his leads so thoroughly that everything becomes a game to play, a puzzle to solve, a code to decipher. That's fun! That's maddening! That's expert craftsmanship.
5 stars. Inimitable and admirable, Pynchon writes circles around the competition. And this is far and away his most inviting novel (though the fun and games take on a dreadful sense of foreboding in time). There is a first-order plot and a second-order plot, and it's a wild ride bouncing between the two.
October 21, 2015
Muted
– I am in an alien way,
Post – reading this weird novel about a
Horn – that despite many mouths, remains
Muted – across the
Post – offices of circuitous US lands although the blare of this
Horn – is audible to a secretive group that moves in
Muted – shadows and sews in its hem, high
Post – bearers and zany professors who insist to
Horn – out any intruders who, in public or
Muted – way, attempt to
Post – any letters sent with this
Horn – bearing stamp to any
Muted – or alive estate holder, even if
Post – delivery, the estate holder might
Horn – away in their favour but
Muted – and inquisitive, our heroine, Oedipa Maas,
Post - receipt of the news of her ex-boyfriends’ death without any
Horn – and trumpet, finds that a seemingly
Muted – journey of co-executor of his estate, shall
Post – her in the midst of a raging war of
Horn – ,one representing an established postal network and another, a
Muted – yet bizarrely active clandestine network that
Post – marks its parcels with watermarks of
Horn – with a bold acronym, W.A.S.T.E which may be
Muted – on an ordinary street but read its
Post – and you know your deliveries are
Horn – washed to conspirators in hiding whose
Muted – voice can be heard before, during and
Post – a play and in the motel’s loo, the
Horn – can be spotted with an eerie hue which isn’t lost in
Muted – acquaintances who slowly desert Oedipa
Post – her unrestrained quest to reveal the
Horn – secret which she finally witnesses as a
Muted – picture which appears to have been
Post – scripted into lots of stamps that bear the
Horn – and the auctioneergrins cries at Oedipa’s gut, torn.
Post – reading this weird novel about a
Horn – that despite many mouths, remains
Muted – across the
Post – offices of circuitous US lands although the blare of this
Horn – is audible to a secretive group that moves in
Muted – shadows and sews in its hem, high
Post – bearers and zany professors who insist to
Horn – out any intruders who, in public or
Muted – way, attempt to
Post – any letters sent with this
Horn – bearing stamp to any
Muted – or alive estate holder, even if
Post – delivery, the estate holder might
Horn – away in their favour but
Muted – and inquisitive, our heroine, Oedipa Maas,
Post - receipt of the news of her ex-boyfriends’ death without any
Horn – and trumpet, finds that a seemingly
Muted – journey of co-executor of his estate, shall
Post – her in the midst of a raging war of
Horn – ,one representing an established postal network and another, a
Muted – yet bizarrely active clandestine network that
Post – marks its parcels with watermarks of
Horn – with a bold acronym, W.A.S.T.E which may be
Muted – on an ordinary street but read its
Post – and you know your deliveries are
Horn – washed to conspirators in hiding whose
Muted – voice can be heard before, during and
Post – a play and in the motel’s loo, the
Horn – can be spotted with an eerie hue which isn’t lost in
Muted – acquaintances who slowly desert Oedipa
Post – her unrestrained quest to reveal the
Horn – secret which she finally witnesses as a
Muted – picture which appears to have been
Post – scripted into lots of stamps that bear the
Horn – and the auctioneer
July 12, 2022
Y’all like paranoia?
October 15, 2012
Once upon a time I won this book from Stephen M. Apparently, Mr. M. had purchased this book used. The previous owner being a young scholar filled the inside cover pages with erudite observations gleaned from the text. I present them for you here in their entirety (along with my parenthetical comments):
1. Immoral in beginning; mostly about how we think (deep)
2. Mucho takes drugs to escape problems (ya don't say)
3. She's searching for answers because she thinks there's a conspiracy in the male (sic).
4. Dr. Halarius (sic) a doctor (sic) running away from Israelites but there's no Israelites; running after him because he was a jew nazi (umm... scratches head...)
5. Looking for truth but always falls apart. All the people she knows have non-realistic things going on. (I told you this chick was deep)
6. She's searching for truth alone.
7. All characters are in there to show "loss of truth." (hmmmm)
8. She see's (sic) WASTE, loss & horny fiancé throughout the group. (what the hell?)(this is underlined btw, apparently very important)
9. People always try to silence of truth. (perhaps English is a second language?)
10. Mute horn: the muting of everything & no one is supposed to know.
11. Unlike the character Oedpa, we are pushed into quietism. (oh are we?)
12 People that complain never gets anywhere (sic). (what that has to do with this book is anyone's guess)
13. Tries to prove gov't wrong but she finds out that the gov't was right & she finds herself lonely & she doesn't know if she really knows the truth. (uh huh)
14. The band is called Paranoids because they smoke pot. (no, she really wrote that, I'm not kidding).
*****
Makes total sense, right? My goodness, I can't imagine reading whatever brainchild was spawned from this nonsense, but I'm going to bet it got a C+ at best.
So, wanna know what I think about this book? I think it could be the love child of David Lynch & Carol Burnett -- it needs a whole new genre: slapstick surrealism. I think it's Gravity's Rainbow minus the sexy time. I think it's the embodiment of what it might be like to be a mouse forever trapped in a maze. I think it's a conspiracy, man, and I think you're all in on it!
1. Immoral in beginning; mostly about how we think (deep)
2. Mucho takes drugs to escape problems (ya don't say)
3. She's searching for answers because she thinks there's a conspiracy in the male (sic).
4. Dr. Halarius (sic) a doctor (sic) running away from Israelites but there's no Israelites; running after him because he was a jew nazi (umm... scratches head...)
5. Looking for truth but always falls apart. All the people she knows have non-realistic things going on. (I told you this chick was deep)
6. She's searching for truth alone.
7. All characters are in there to show "loss of truth." (hmmmm)
8. She see's (sic) WASTE, loss & horny fiancé throughout the group. (what the hell?)(this is underlined btw, apparently very important)
9. People always try to silence of truth. (perhaps English is a second language?)
10. Mute horn: the muting of everything & no one is supposed to know.
11. Unlike the character Oedpa, we are pushed into quietism. (oh are we?)
12 People that complain never gets anywhere (sic). (what that has to do with this book is anyone's guess)
13. Tries to prove gov't wrong but she finds out that the gov't was right & she finds herself lonely & she doesn't know if she really knows the truth. (uh huh)
14. The band is called Paranoids because they smoke pot. (no, she really wrote that, I'm not kidding).
*****
Makes total sense, right? My goodness, I can't imagine reading whatever brainchild was spawned from this nonsense, but I'm going to bet it got a C+ at best.
So, wanna know what I think about this book? I think it could be the love child of David Lynch & Carol Burnett -- it needs a whole new genre: slapstick surrealism. I think it's Gravity's Rainbow minus the sexy time. I think it's the embodiment of what it might be like to be a mouse forever trapped in a maze. I think it's a conspiracy, man, and I think you're all in on it!
November 15, 2022
ايه دة في ايه😳 مفهمتش حاجة !! طريقة كتابة مجنونة وغريبة وغير ممتعة بالمرة!!مش قادرة أفهم حتي القصة عن ايه!! أكتفي بقراءة أول ١٠٠ صفحة من هذا الشئ..أول و أخر قراءة لهذا الكاتب..فرصة مش سعيدة أبداً يا أستاذ توماس!
March 10, 2020
Dumb. Overrated. And the only plus here? That it's a short novel.
A mystery with no solution. I think the only person that can pull this off is David Lynch. But he's no novelist. This is absurdism and pretentiousness at its utmost. I really did not enjoy trying to "figure out" a, truth be told, lost cause.
Skip. Please vanish from the 1001 Musts list! We do not need a hybrid Don DeLillo, Nathaniel West, David Cronenberg. Truly. Sort of a ridiculous embarrassment.
A mystery with no solution. I think the only person that can pull this off is David Lynch. But he's no novelist. This is absurdism and pretentiousness at its utmost. I really did not enjoy trying to "figure out" a, truth be told, lost cause.
Skip. Please vanish from the 1001 Musts list! We do not need a hybrid Don DeLillo, Nathaniel West, David Cronenberg. Truly. Sort of a ridiculous embarrassment.
November 6, 2009
I really want to like Thomas Pynchon. I love the whole brilliant but reclusive author act, and all the cool kids at the library seem to think he’s the cat’s ass. But I’m starting to think that he and I are never going to be friends.
I tried to read Gravity’s Rainbow twice and wound up curled up in the fetal position , crying while sucking my thumb. Supposedly, this is his most accessible book. It was easier to read than GR, but easier to understand? Well…….
Oedipa Maas unexpectedly finds herself as the executor to a wealthy former lover’s estate. While trying to deal with that, she begins meeting odd people and seeing symbols that lead her to a bizarre conspiracy theory about a centuries old society called the Trystero that is mostly known for running an underground postal system. But the more evidence she finds about the Trystero existing makes Oedipa increasingly paranoid about whether she’s the victim of an elaborate hoax or if she’s losing her own sanity.
This is one of those books that I enjoyed while reading, but knew that I was missing a whole layer of meaning. I loved the idea of a rogue postal service and how Pynchon played with it as the idea of an urban myth or conspiracy theory. It’s probably the kind of book that I’ll really only get on a second reading so I’ll try it again someday.
I tried to read Gravity’s Rainbow twice and wound up curled up in the fetal position , crying while sucking my thumb. Supposedly, this is his most accessible book. It was easier to read than GR, but easier to understand? Well…….
Oedipa Maas unexpectedly finds herself as the executor to a wealthy former lover’s estate. While trying to deal with that, she begins meeting odd people and seeing symbols that lead her to a bizarre conspiracy theory about a centuries old society called the Trystero that is mostly known for running an underground postal system. But the more evidence she finds about the Trystero existing makes Oedipa increasingly paranoid about whether she’s the victim of an elaborate hoax or if she’s losing her own sanity.
This is one of those books that I enjoyed while reading, but knew that I was missing a whole layer of meaning. I loved the idea of a rogue postal service and how Pynchon played with it as the idea of an urban myth or conspiracy theory. It’s probably the kind of book that I’ll really only get on a second reading so I’ll try it again someday.
December 6, 2023
I know everyone thinks that this - along with Gravity's Rainbow - is Pynchon's masterpiece and yes, Oedipa Maas is one crazy-ass protagonist and an incredible addition to the post-modern canon. The story itself was funny and absurd and exciting. I guess I just wanted a conclusion. Sort of like with V where I was really invested but then was like, ummm so what does this all mean?
All that being said, it is still Pynchon and is still amazing.
Fino's Pynchon Reviews:
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
All that being said, it is still Pynchon and is still amazing.
Fino's Pynchon Reviews:
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
July 10, 2015
Quite fittingly, I'm sitting down to write this review after having just checked the mail. Nothing today but junk and bills. Save for my paltry royalty checks and the occasional bit of fan mail here and there (fans, you know who you are), that's about all I get most days, but this still doesn't stop me from checking the box two, three, or even four times until something shows up. On the odd day there's no mail before suppertime, I'm usually left somewhat disconcerted. What, no catalogs? No supermarket flyers? Not even anything for that chick who lived here three tenants ago? I start to worry that the postman fell ill, or had an accident somewhere along the way.
That's how reliable the mail is.
Sure, we've all had mail arrive late, if ever at all. Things get lost from time to time, but whatever our complaints against the various couriers, what we forget in those moments of frustration is that 99.99% of the mail addressed to us in our lifetime does eventually make its way into our hands, and usually right on time!
It's simply astounding. Sometimes I wonder whether UPS, FedEx, and the United States Postal Service have all colluded to pioneer some new teleportation technology, warping pallets of packages and correspondence from coast to coast, leisurely loading their bags and trucks for their local rounds while the rest of us dupes check their phony tracking numbers.
That's probably even further fetched than the conspiracy postulated by this book, but not by much. Either way, the mail remains quite astonishing nonetheless.
Think about it. If people couldn't send things by mail, they'd have to make every delivery in person. Only the very well connected could ever succeed in harnessing a vast network of others in such a grand endeavor, and I guess that explains why our national/international delivery systems can trace their roots back to the messengers employed by empires of old. Royal European delivery services eventually came to be rivaled by private outfits, subsequently squashed by postal reform in this country, only to return sub rosa in a campaign of guerilla mailings in 1966. Here in 2013, the government service is presently taking its turn on the ropes, but that's a whole 'nother can of worms.
This isn't a morality play between big business and big government couriers, people. This is the very heart and soul of communication -- ugly, futile, and absolutely necessary.
That's how reliable the mail is.
Sure, we've all had mail arrive late, if ever at all. Things get lost from time to time, but whatever our complaints against the various couriers, what we forget in those moments of frustration is that 99.99% of the mail addressed to us in our lifetime does eventually make its way into our hands, and usually right on time!
It's simply astounding. Sometimes I wonder whether UPS, FedEx, and the United States Postal Service have all colluded to pioneer some new teleportation technology, warping pallets of packages and correspondence from coast to coast, leisurely loading their bags and trucks for their local rounds while the rest of us dupes check their phony tracking numbers.
That's probably even further fetched than the conspiracy postulated by this book, but not by much. Either way, the mail remains quite astonishing nonetheless.
Think about it. If people couldn't send things by mail, they'd have to make every delivery in person. Only the very well connected could ever succeed in harnessing a vast network of others in such a grand endeavor, and I guess that explains why our national/international delivery systems can trace their roots back to the messengers employed by empires of old. Royal European delivery services eventually came to be rivaled by private outfits, subsequently squashed by postal reform in this country, only to return sub rosa in a campaign of guerilla mailings in 1966. Here in 2013, the government service is presently taking its turn on the ropes, but that's a whole 'nother can of worms.
This isn't a morality play between big business and big government couriers, people. This is the very heart and soul of communication -- ugly, futile, and absolutely necessary.
Read
September 21, 2022A couple of weeks ago, I happened to be searching my shelves for a particular book when I came on this one, squashed between two other books on a high shelf so that its slim spine was scarcely visible. And even though I have a lot of other books to read, I got a surge of pleasure out of finding one I'd completely forgotten about. I bought 'Lot 49' soon after joining Goodreads because everyone seemed to be talking about Thomas Pynchon at that time though I hadn't heard of him before. But the burst of Pynchon enthusiasm I experienced must have been short lived because the book never got opened and moved from one lot of unread books to another over the following ten years until somehow it ended up lost on that high shelf. When I found it again, I decided it was a sign: it was time for 'The Reading of Lot 49'.
Well, reader, I started it that very day and was intrigued enough to read several chapters—though it was all quite mysterious and I was a little confused as to what was going on. Then we had some visitors, and one of them had gone to the trouble of finding a book for me he was certain I wouldn't have read. He was so interested in getting my reaction to the new genre he was introducing me to that I set 'Lot 49' aside and began reading Philip K Dick's The Man in the High Castle instead. A couple of chapters in, I was finding it mysteriously confusing. And I had a déjàvu lu moment. Hadn't I been reading something quite like this very recently? Still, I was intrigued enough to continue reading but the more of it I read the more confused I became until I picked up 'Lot 49' again, when it all became clear. Or rather the two books remained confusing but I had a revelation about the déja lu feeling: both books are set in the 1960s with much of the action happening in California. Both reference WWII a lot, especially the Germans. Both present a kind of alternative history. Both feature fake memorabilia. And both have a befuddled woman character, prone to believing in signs, who is intrigued and confused by a mysterious book.
I really identified with those two women characters!
Well, reader, I started it that very day and was intrigued enough to read several chapters—though it was all quite mysterious and I was a little confused as to what was going on. Then we had some visitors, and one of them had gone to the trouble of finding a book for me he was certain I wouldn't have read. He was so interested in getting my reaction to the new genre he was introducing me to that I set 'Lot 49' aside and began reading Philip K Dick's The Man in the High Castle instead. A couple of chapters in, I was finding it mysteriously confusing. And I had a déjà
I really identified with those two women characters!
August 17, 2022
"So, what do you think it's about?" she asked, as she took a preliminary sip from her cocktail. "Entropy, to start with," he replied. "If only he'd known the Holographic Principle. It follows from thermodynamic calculations that the information content of a black hole is proportional to the square of its radius, not the cube, and the Universe can reasonably be thought of as a black hole. Hence all its information is really on its surface, and the interior is a low-energy illusion. Wouldn't you say that the book is rather like that too?"
"Mm-hm," she said, wondering if she should make a pun about quantum gravity and rainbows, but thinking better of it. "And then the deficiencies of the Container Metaphor of Communication," he continued. "On the naïve view, information is put into a container, namely the words, delivered to the addressee by the US mailman, and opened to obtain the meaning. But real communication is more informal. It's pieces of courier post from an unknown sender that arrive in turn, in taxis."
"Thurn and Taxis?" she interrupted. He looked at her for a moment.
"We could have sex," he added, in a tone midway between an afterthought, a question and a declaration of religious belief. She sighed, and undid the top two buttons of her blouse; he noticed they had a hard-edged quality different from the lower ones. A gold pendant, surprised by the sudden daylight and unsuccessfully attempting to hide between her breasts, spelled out the W.A.S.T.E. symbol. He examined it carefully, then hoisted the focus of his attention back towards her face. She made a complicated gesture, simultaneously expressing her agreement with the essential reasonableness of his request and the impossibility of acquiescing, then did up her blouse again.
"I think another martini would be useful," she said. "But this time, I want to see how you pit the olives. How you extract the kernel, as it were." She followed his hands as they cooperated in this task, which she had always felt beyond her. The left hand steadied the olive between thumb and forefinger, while the right one held the knife, exerting a steady downward pressure. The agate-coloured flesh split neatly apart, revealing the unwanted stone, which the right hand then discarded.
"Now let me try," she said, but she knew that, as usual, it would not work. Somehow, she was holding it in the wrong way; she only managed to inflict a flesh wound, rather than his clean kill. She relinquished the knife, and allowed him to do the remaining olives.
At least she had her martini, even if its secret still eluded her.
"Mm-hm," she said, wondering if she should make a pun about quantum gravity and rainbows, but thinking better of it. "And then the deficiencies of the Container Metaphor of Communication," he continued. "On the naïve view, information is put into a container, namely the words, delivered to the addressee by the US mailman, and opened to obtain the meaning. But real communication is more informal. It's pieces of courier post from an unknown sender that arrive in turn, in taxis."
"Thurn and Taxis?" she interrupted. He looked at her for a moment.
"We could have sex," he added, in a tone midway between an afterthought, a question and a declaration of religious belief. She sighed, and undid the top two buttons of her blouse; he noticed they had a hard-edged quality different from the lower ones. A gold pendant, surprised by the sudden daylight and unsuccessfully attempting to hide between her breasts, spelled out the W.A.S.T.E. symbol. He examined it carefully, then hoisted the focus of his attention back towards her face. She made a complicated gesture, simultaneously expressing her agreement with the essential reasonableness of his request and the impossibility of acquiescing, then did up her blouse again.
"I think another martini would be useful," she said. "But this time, I want to see how you pit the olives. How you extract the kernel, as it were." She followed his hands as they cooperated in this task, which she had always felt beyond her. The left hand steadied the olive between thumb and forefinger, while the right one held the knife, exerting a steady downward pressure. The agate-coloured flesh split neatly apart, revealing the unwanted stone, which the right hand then discarded.
"Now let me try," she said, but she knew that, as usual, it would not work. Somehow, she was holding it in the wrong way; she only managed to inflict a flesh wound, rather than his clean kill. She relinquished the knife, and allowed him to do the remaining olives.
At least she had her martini, even if its secret still eluded her.
May 16, 2022
This was nasty. A horrible predictable car crash – no! Don’t drive when you’re angry! Aieeeee! Whump! Glass splinters!
Some authors you kind of think
a) you really should read at least something by them, they being so terrifically important and all, which people do not let up about; and
b) but you just have that bad feeling about them like when you catch the eye of some drunk in a bar (uh oh, let’s get out of here!) - I thought I am so not going to like this guy with his patent acidhead paranoid style and his 900 page novels that it’s just possible some readers do not actually finish what? I never said that. But I found that he’d written one that was less than 900 pages long.
The thing is that this guy’s thing is that he’s got everyone convinced he is using silliness (comedy character names, ludicrously complicated comedy plots which avoid resolutions like the bubonic plague, frantic references to the detritus of the everyday (car lots, plastic filters), conspiracies heavy in the air like Paco Rabane at an FBI convention, and plenty of LSD in the water) as a mask: because actually he is Deadly Serious.
There is a bright vibrant collection of writers who also use this headachy palette of loud screechy colours - Nathaniel West, Philip Dick, Hunter Thompson, David Foster Wallace, (it does seem to be a boys club) – and yes – it does seem that all these guys do this paranoid we’re all living in a Matrix thing better than Thomas Pynchon, if The Crying of Lot 49 is anything to go by.
I didn’t like this novel, it was mostly nails on a blackboard - (but I will say that Mr Pynchon can really sculpt a lovely surprising sentence, I would quote one or two but they are like a page long insert eyeroll emoji) - all the nonsense about private postal companies at war with each other since the 19th century, give me a break. And the Beatle parodies haven’t aged well. And the casual misogyny, well, that goes without saying. Sorry I even mentioned it.* This must be a Bad Pynchon, surely his other stuff must be better. One would hope.
* But for an exploration of that succulent topic, see Ioana’s review here
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
Some authors you kind of think
a) you really should read at least something by them, they being so terrifically important and all, which people do not let up about; and
b) but you just have that bad feeling about them like when you catch the eye of some drunk in a bar (uh oh, let’s get out of here!) - I thought I am so not going to like this guy with his patent acidhead paranoid style and his 900 page novels that it’s just possible some readers do not actually finish what? I never said that. But I found that he’d written one that was less than 900 pages long.
The thing is that this guy’s thing is that he’s got everyone convinced he is using silliness (comedy character names, ludicrously complicated comedy plots which avoid resolutions like the bubonic plague, frantic references to the detritus of the everyday (car lots, plastic filters), conspiracies heavy in the air like Paco Rabane at an FBI convention, and plenty of LSD in the water) as a mask: because actually he is Deadly Serious.
There is a bright vibrant collection of writers who also use this headachy palette of loud screechy colours - Nathaniel West, Philip Dick, Hunter Thompson, David Foster Wallace, (it does seem to be a boys club) – and yes – it does seem that all these guys do this paranoid we’re all living in a Matrix thing better than Thomas Pynchon, if The Crying of Lot 49 is anything to go by.
I didn’t like this novel, it was mostly nails on a blackboard - (but I will say that Mr Pynchon can really sculpt a lovely surprising sentence, I would quote one or two but they are like a page long insert eyeroll emoji) - all the nonsense about private postal companies at war with each other since the 19th century, give me a break. And the Beatle parodies haven’t aged well. And the casual misogyny, well, that goes without saying. Sorry I even mentioned it.* This must be a Bad Pynchon, surely his other stuff must be better. One would hope.
* But for an exploration of that succulent topic, see Ioana’s review here
https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
October 16, 2021
En 2003, el más influyente gurú de la literatura norteamericana, el prestigioso y en ocasiones polémico Harold Bloom, afirmó que, en su opinión, había cuatro escritores estadounidenses en activo que “merecen nuestro halago”. Los afortunados eran –y son– Philip Roth, Don DeLillo, Cormac McCarthy y Thomas Pynchon.
Por aquel entonces, guiado por estúpidos prejuicios, yo apenas prestaba atención a la literatura norteamericana contemporánea; no concebía que en un país donde la gente llevaba sombrero de vaquero por la calle y adornaba sus automóviles con cornamentas de vaca pudieran escribirse novelas comparables a las de los autores latinoamericanos o europeos.
Por suerte, una de las virtudes de la lectura es que resulta ser un remedio muy eficaz contra la ignorancia y yo, gracias a Dios, estoy mucho mejor de lo mío; en los años posteriores empecé a frecuentar a los integrantes de los “cuatro magníficos” de Bloom, y con ellos (y con otros muchos, más o menos conocidos, pero igualmente recomendables) he descubierto una narrativa que no tiene nada que envidiar —y a veces supera— a las que ya conocía y que, además, nace de planteamientos completamente distintos. Sin embargo, incluso estando ya entregado a la literatura norteamericana desde había tiempo, no acababa de decidirme por Pynchon.
No es que no tuviera ganas de leerle, aunque sólo fuera para darle completamente la razón a Bloom, pero también le tenía por el más complicado de los cuatro. Sabía que sus libros derrochan imaginación y creatividad y que su lectura es exigente —aunque también apasionante. Me iba acercando a su obra poco a poco, en círculos concéntricos, sin decidirme, pero sin perderla de vista. Así que cuando se cruzó delante de mí La subasta del lote 49 lo perseguí, como Alicia siguió al conejo y al asomarme a su portada, al igual que en el cuento de Carroll, caí en el País de las Maravillas de Pynchon; Pynchonland.
Un País de las Maravillas californiano y portentoso, desaforado y mágico, y mucho más demencial que el de Carroll… pero acabo de empezar y ya me doy cuenta de que, por mucho que me esfuerce, con mis palabras no voy a ser capaz de contar cómo es Pynchonland; allí el único guía acreditado es el propio Pynchon. Es más, corro el riesgo de que, descrito por mí, ese universo fabuloso y abigarrado parezca poco más que una burda patochada, una boutade sin sentido ni gracia.
Todo comienza cuando Edipa Maas —incluso los nombres de los personajes se mueven entre lo posible y lo inverosímil, entre el chiste y la metáfora— regresa a casa después de una reunión de Tupperware y se encuentra con que ha sido nombrada albacea del testamento de un antiguo amante suyo, Pierce Inverarity, un acaudalado especulador inmobiliario. Completamente ignorante en materia de testamentos, esta resuelta ama de casa se despide de su marido, Wendell Mucho Maas, y se dirige a San Narciso (una imprecisa y levemente alucinógena localidad de la costa californiana, propiedad de Inverarity casi en su totalidad) para trabajar junto a los abogados de Warpe, Wistfull, Kubitschek & McMingus en la tasación de la herencia del finado.
Pero pronto Edipa va a descubrir que el legado de Inverarity oculta muchos misterios, y poco a poco se irán sumando señales de que una perversa y centenaria organización secreta mueve en la sombra los hilos de todo lo que la rodea. Un descubrimiento (que más que de una investigación de los indicios nace de una especie de revelación) que sería aterrador si no fuera porque se trata de una organización ¡postal! clandestina dispuesta a todo para combatir a la red estatal de correos.
Chocante ¿no? Que nadie diga que no lo había advertido: sin el genio fabulador de Pynchon el argumento suena absurdo. Lo mejor es olvidarse de dicho y leer la novela, para así comprobar cómo el autor obra el milagro de darle a todo lo anterior —y a muchas más historias— sentido, gracia e, incluso, profundidad.
¿Y quién es Thomas Pynchon, qué sabemos de él que nos ayude a desvelar su truco? Pues me temo que se trata de uno de esos escritores secretos, como Salinger o Traven, así que poco se puede decir sobre él. Se da por cierto que nació en Long Island en 1937. Se cree que estudió física e ingeniería en Cornell y después se pasó al curso de literatura que impartía Vladimir Nabokov en aquella universidad, pero su expediente académico, como su ficha del ejército, han desaparecido. Circulan un par de fotos suyas de cuando era un adolescente y sólo ha aparecido una vez en televisión, con el rostro difuminado, como los testigos de un delito o los soplones de la Mafia. Cuando le concedieron el National Book Award en 1974 por El arcoíris de gravedad , envió a un cómico a recogerlo en su lugar. Eso es todo; en ausencia del autor, dejemos que sea su obra la que hable.
Las novelas de Pynchon son imaginativas y complejas, tanto en su estilo como en su estructura —aunque La subasta del lote 49 es una de las más breves y lineales. En ellas el autor combina elementos radicalmente opuestos, como si cada uno de ellos necesitase estar unido a su negativo para cobrar sentido (no un sentido estrictamente racional, sino también emocional y místico).
Pynchon toma la alta cultura (haciendo gala de tal erudición que en ocasiones es difícil distinguir lo real de lo inventado) y lo kitsch, la termodinámica y la superchería, lo subterráneo y lo etéreo y, como si de un descendiente posmoderno del doctor Frankenstein se tratara, construye con esos miembros un monstruo terrible y bello y le insufla vida y consciencia.
Y en esta amalgama de paranoia y humor ácido, de conspiraciones y desintegración social y personal, personajes tan inverosímiles que parecen de carne y hueso se mueven según los dictados de una lógica que les supera y se dejan llevar, al igual que el lector, por una incontenible marea de creatividad, por una epifanía lisérgica. Es Pynchonland, un universo que cuando uno está a punto de aprehenderlo se desdobla en otros mil más, el País de las Maravillas de la literatura contemporánea.
Al final, terminado el libro, es inevitable plantearse si significa algo: ¿es una broma o una alegoría? La subasta del lote 49 es un libro divertido, entre otros muchos adjetivos que se me ocurren, pero sería simplista considerar que no es más que una humorada del autor. Sin embargo, tampoco me parece que se trate de una alegoría; no creo que existan claves ocultas y yo, desde luego, no he tratado de buscarlas. Si no pretende decirnos nada, ¿por qué entonces se ha molestado el autor en construir semejante artificio? Para mí, el autor ha necesitado reinventar el mundo y la historia para dar cabida al descomunal ejercicio creativo, estrambótico y demencial que es La subasta del lote 49.
Al final, el País de las Maravillas de Carroll se tornó en pesadilla y Alicia tuvo que huir de allí. Para su alivio, todo había sido un sueño. En cambio, yo estoy deseando volver a Pynchonland, perderme en sus laberintos y, si en posible, enloquecer un poco, como sus habitantes.
Por aquel entonces, guiado por estúpidos prejuicios, yo apenas prestaba atención a la literatura norteamericana contemporánea; no concebía que en un país donde la gente llevaba sombrero de vaquero por la calle y adornaba sus automóviles con cornamentas de vaca pudieran escribirse novelas comparables a las de los autores latinoamericanos o europeos.
Por suerte, una de las virtudes de la lectura es que resulta ser un remedio muy eficaz contra la ignorancia y yo, gracias a Dios, estoy mucho mejor de lo mío; en los años posteriores empecé a frecuentar a los integrantes de los “cuatro magníficos” de Bloom, y con ellos (y con otros muchos, más o menos conocidos, pero igualmente recomendables) he descubierto una narrativa que no tiene nada que envidiar —y a veces supera— a las que ya conocía y que, además, nace de planteamientos completamente distintos. Sin embargo, incluso estando ya entregado a la literatura norteamericana desde había tiempo, no acababa de decidirme por Pynchon.
No es que no tuviera ganas de leerle, aunque sólo fuera para darle completamente la razón a Bloom, pero también le tenía por el más complicado de los cuatro. Sabía que sus libros derrochan imaginación y creatividad y que su lectura es exigente —aunque también apasionante. Me iba acercando a su obra poco a poco, en círculos concéntricos, sin decidirme, pero sin perderla de vista. Así que cuando se cruzó delante de mí La subasta del lote 49 lo perseguí, como Alicia siguió al conejo y al asomarme a su portada, al igual que en el cuento de Carroll, caí en el País de las Maravillas de Pynchon; Pynchonland.
Un País de las Maravillas californiano y portentoso, desaforado y mágico, y mucho más demencial que el de Carroll… pero acabo de empezar y ya me doy cuenta de que, por mucho que me esfuerce, con mis palabras no voy a ser capaz de contar cómo es Pynchonland; allí el único guía acreditado es el propio Pynchon. Es más, corro el riesgo de que, descrito por mí, ese universo fabuloso y abigarrado parezca poco más que una burda patochada, una boutade sin sentido ni gracia.
Todo comienza cuando Edipa Maas —incluso los nombres de los personajes se mueven entre lo posible y lo inverosímil, entre el chiste y la metáfora— regresa a casa después de una reunión de Tupperware y se encuentra con que ha sido nombrada albacea del testamento de un antiguo amante suyo, Pierce Inverarity, un acaudalado especulador inmobiliario. Completamente ignorante en materia de testamentos, esta resuelta ama de casa se despide de su marido, Wendell Mucho Maas, y se dirige a San Narciso (una imprecisa y levemente alucinógena localidad de la costa californiana, propiedad de Inverarity casi en su totalidad) para trabajar junto a los abogados de Warpe, Wistfull, Kubitschek & McMingus en la tasación de la herencia del finado.
Pero pronto Edipa va a descubrir que el legado de Inverarity oculta muchos misterios, y poco a poco se irán sumando señales de que una perversa y centenaria organización secreta mueve en la sombra los hilos de todo lo que la rodea. Un descubrimiento (que más que de una investigación de los indicios nace de una especie de revelación) que sería aterrador si no fuera porque se trata de una organización ¡postal! clandestina dispuesta a todo para combatir a la red estatal de correos.
Chocante ¿no? Que nadie diga que no lo había advertido: sin el genio fabulador de Pynchon el argumento suena absurdo. Lo mejor es olvidarse de dicho y leer la novela, para así comprobar cómo el autor obra el milagro de darle a todo lo anterior —y a muchas más historias— sentido, gracia e, incluso, profundidad.
¿Y quién es Thomas Pynchon, qué sabemos de él que nos ayude a desvelar su truco? Pues me temo que se trata de uno de esos escritores secretos, como Salinger o Traven, así que poco se puede decir sobre él. Se da por cierto que nació en Long Island en 1937. Se cree que estudió física e ingeniería en Cornell y después se pasó al curso de literatura que impartía Vladimir Nabokov en aquella universidad, pero su expediente académico, como su ficha del ejército, han desaparecido. Circulan un par de fotos suyas de cuando era un adolescente y sólo ha aparecido una vez en televisión, con el rostro difuminado, como los testigos de un delito o los soplones de la Mafia. Cuando le concedieron el National Book Award en 1974 por El arcoíris de gravedad , envió a un cómico a recogerlo en su lugar. Eso es todo; en ausencia del autor, dejemos que sea su obra la que hable.
Las novelas de Pynchon son imaginativas y complejas, tanto en su estilo como en su estructura —aunque La subasta del lote 49 es una de las más breves y lineales. En ellas el autor combina elementos radicalmente opuestos, como si cada uno de ellos necesitase estar unido a su negativo para cobrar sentido (no un sentido estrictamente racional, sino también emocional y místico).
Pynchon toma la alta cultura (haciendo gala de tal erudición que en ocasiones es difícil distinguir lo real de lo inventado) y lo kitsch, la termodinámica y la superchería, lo subterráneo y lo etéreo y, como si de un descendiente posmoderno del doctor Frankenstein se tratara, construye con esos miembros un monstruo terrible y bello y le insufla vida y consciencia.
Y en esta amalgama de paranoia y humor ácido, de conspiraciones y desintegración social y personal, personajes tan inverosímiles que parecen de carne y hueso se mueven según los dictados de una lógica que les supera y se dejan llevar, al igual que el lector, por una incontenible marea de creatividad, por una epifanía lisérgica. Es Pynchonland, un universo que cuando uno está a punto de aprehenderlo se desdobla en otros mil más, el País de las Maravillas de la literatura contemporánea.
Al final, terminado el libro, es inevitable plantearse si significa algo: ¿es una broma o una alegoría? La subasta del lote 49 es un libro divertido, entre otros muchos adjetivos que se me ocurren, pero sería simplista considerar que no es más que una humorada del autor. Sin embargo, tampoco me parece que se trate de una alegoría; no creo que existan claves ocultas y yo, desde luego, no he tratado de buscarlas. Si no pretende decirnos nada, ¿por qué entonces se ha molestado el autor en construir semejante artificio? Para mí, el autor ha necesitado reinventar el mundo y la historia para dar cabida al descomunal ejercicio creativo, estrambótico y demencial que es La subasta del lote 49.
Al final, el País de las Maravillas de Carroll se tornó en pesadilla y Alicia tuvo que huir de allí. Para su alivio, todo había sido un sueño. En cambio, yo estoy deseando volver a Pynchonland, perderme en sus laberintos y, si en posible, enloquecer un poco, como sus habitantes.
November 21, 2011
Og think nasty writer-man laughing at Og.
June 27, 2017
Διαβάζοντας και την τελευταία λέξη της Συλλογής των 49 στο Σφυρί, άφησα το βιβλίο πάνω στο τραπέζι κι έμεινα να το κοιτάζω κάπως αμήχανη για κανένα 10λεπτο. Σε αυτά τα 10 λεπτά, άρχισα έναν φανταστικό διάλογο με τον εαυτό μου (ας μου συγχωρεθεί αυτή η ελαφριά παράνοια) για το αν θα έπρεπε να το ξαναδιαβάσω ή όχι. Καλύτερα όμως να βάλουμε μία άνω τελεία ξεκινώντας, όπως πρέπει, με την υπόθεση του βιβλίου. Και κάπου εδώ σχεδόν ακούω το ειρωνικό γελάκι του Pynchon-καλή του ώρα όπου κι αν βρίσκεται- να μου λέει: Για να σε δω κοπελιά τι έχεις να πεις.
Η Συλλογή των 49 στο σφυρί ξεκινάει με μία διαθήκη που φτάνει στην Οιδίπα, μία τυπική νοικοκυρά της Αμερικής, βάσει της οποίας ο αποθανών πρώην σύντροφός της την καθιστά εκτελεστή της περιουσίας του. Το ταξίδι της κάπου στο Λος Άντζελες, προκειμένου να τακτοποιήσει όλες τις λεπτομέρειες γύρω από την διαθήκη, αποτελεί την αρχή της πιο αλλόκοτης περιπέτειας που έχω διαβάσει ποτέ στην ζωή μου. Η Οιδίπα αρχίζει σταδιακά να βυθίζεται σε έναν κόσμο γεμάτο συμβολισμούς και παράξενες συμπτώσεις από αυτές που σε κάνουν να αναρωτιέσαι αν πραγματικά βρίσκεσαι κοντά σε μία σπουδαία ανακάλυψη ή αν απλά τρελαίνεσαι. Ακόμα και το όνομά της άλλωστε είναι ένα σύμβολο: « Όπως ο Οιδίπους μπροστά στην Σφίγγα, έτσι και η Οιδίπα μπροστά τον κόσμο του αμερικάνικου ονείρου έχει να απαντήσει σε μία σειρά από αινίγματα και γρίφους, προκαλώντας την μοίρα της.»
Δεν θα είχε κανένα απολύτως νόημα να σας αναφέρω περισσότερα πράγματα για την εξέλιξη του έργου αφενός γιατί θα σας μπερδέψω χειρότερα και αφ’ εταίρου γιατί, ας είμαστε ειλικρινείς, δεν τα κατάλαβα όλα απόλυτα. Αυτός άλλωστε είναι κι ένας από τους λόγους που με έκαναν να αναρωτηθώ εάν θα έπρεπε να το ξαναπιάσω από την αρχή. Και θα σας εξηγήσω γιατί αποφάσισα να μην το κάνω.
Ο Pynchon είναι αδιαμφισβήτητα από τους πιο έξυπνους συγγραφείς που έχω συναντήσει με απίστευτη ικανότητα να πλάθει ιστορίες και χαρακτήρες. Ένας τόσο έξυπνος άνθρωπος λοιπόν υπάρχει περίπτωση να μην έχει σκεφτεί πόσο εξωφρενικά μπερδεμένο είναι το βιβλίο του; Να μην του έχει περάσει δηλαδή από το μυαλό πως, όταν σε μία αφήγηση μπλέκεις, αριστοτεχνικά φυσικά, την ιστορία, την φυσική, την θρησκεία, το μεταφυσικό και όλα αυτά μέσα από μία άκρως σημειολογική γραφή, ο μέσος αναγνώστης θα χάσει την μπάλα και τα μυαλά του μαζί;
Προσωπικά πιστεύω ότι είχε απόλυτη συναίσθηση του λαβύρινθου που σχεδίασε και στόχος του δεν ήταν να βγούμε από αυτόν κατανοώντας στο έπακρον όλα όσα συνέβησαν στην διαδρομή , αλλά απλά να χαλαρώσουμε και να απολαύσουμε το «χάσιμο» κάτι που μοιραία κάνουν και οι ήρωες του . Η σκέψη αυτή, δυστυχώς, μου πέρασε κάπως αργά από το μυαλό, ήμουν ήδη μετά την μέση του βιβλίου, αλλά μόλις την υιοθέτησα απόλαυσα πολύ περισσότερο την ανάγνωση και το Πιντσονικό σύμπαν. Το ίδιο το μυθιστόρημα άλλωστε δεν κλείνει με κάποιο συγκεκριμένο συμπέρασμα ή σαφή απάντηση γιατί πολύ απλά δεν είναι αυτός ο στόχος.
«Γιατί ήταν τότε σαν να περπατούσε στην μήτρα ενός μεγάλου κομπιούτερ, τα μηδέν και τα ένα ζευγαρωμένα στο πάνω μέρος, κρεμασμένα σαν ισορροπούντα κινητά τεμάχια δεξιά κι αριστερά, μπροστά, πυκνά, ίσως χωρίς τέλος. Πίσω από τις ιερογλυφικές οδούς υπάρχει ή ένα υπερβατικό νόημα ή μόνον γη…Το ένα και το μηδέν. Έτσι ήταν διευθετημένα τα ζεύγη.»
Ολοκληρώνοντας την ανάγνωση είχα την αίσθηση ότι μόλις έκανα έναν τρελό γύρο με τρενάκι στο μυαλό του συγγραφέα, από το οποίο δεν βγήκα αλώβητη, όπως άλλωστε μας προειδοποιεί και το εισαγωγικό σημείωμα, αλλά βγήκα σίγουρα καλύτερη. Γιατί όσο και να με μπέρδεψε/ παίδεψε, αυτό που κατάλαβα, ως ένα σημείο σχεδόν ενστικτωδώς, είναι ότι πρόκειται για ένα κυριολεκτικά μοναδικό βιβλίο.
Η Συλλογή των 49 στο σφυρί ξεκινάει με μία διαθήκη που φτάνει στην Οιδίπα, μία τυπική νοικοκυρά της Αμερικής, βάσει της οποίας ο αποθανών πρώην σύντροφός της την καθιστά εκτελεστή της περιουσίας του. Το ταξίδι της κάπου στο Λος Άντζελες, προκειμένου να τακτοποιήσει όλες τις λεπτομέρειες γύρω από την διαθήκη, αποτελεί την αρχή της πιο αλλόκοτης περιπέτειας που έχω διαβάσει ποτέ στην ζωή μου. Η Οιδίπα αρχίζει σταδιακά να βυθίζεται σε έναν κόσμο γεμάτο συμβολισμούς και παράξενες συμπτώσεις από αυτές που σε κάνουν να αναρωτιέσαι αν πραγματικά βρίσκεσαι κοντά σε μία σπουδαία ανακάλυψη ή αν απλά τρελαίνεσαι. Ακόμα και το όνομά της άλλωστε είναι ένα σύμβολο: « Όπως ο Οιδίπους μπροστά στην Σφίγγα, έτσι και η Οιδίπα μπροστά τον κόσμο του αμερικάνικου ονείρου έχει να απαντήσει σε μία σειρά από αινίγματα και γρίφους, προκαλώντας την μοίρα της.»
Δεν θα είχε κανένα απολύτως νόημα να σας αναφέρω περισσότερα πράγματα για την εξέλιξη του έργου αφενός γιατί θα σας μπερδέψω χειρότερα και αφ’ εταίρου γιατί, ας είμαστε ειλικρινείς, δεν τα κατάλαβα όλα απόλυτα. Αυτός άλλωστε είναι κι ένας από τους λόγους που με έκαναν να αναρωτηθώ εάν θα έπρεπε να το ξαναπιάσω από την αρχή. Και θα σας εξηγήσω γιατί αποφάσισα να μην το κάνω.
Ο Pynchon είναι αδιαμφισβήτητα από τους πιο έξυπνους συγγραφείς που έχω συναντήσει με απίστευτη ικανότητα να πλάθει ιστορίες και χαρακτήρες. Ένας τόσο έξυπνος άνθρωπος λοιπόν υπάρχει περίπτωση να μην έχει σκεφτεί πόσο εξωφρενικά μπερδεμένο είναι το βιβλίο του; Να μην του έχει περάσει δηλαδή από το μυαλό πως, όταν σε μία αφήγηση μπλέκεις, αριστοτεχνικά φυσικά, την ιστορία, την φυσική, την θρησκεία, το μεταφυσικό και όλα αυτά μέσα από μία άκρως σημειολογική γραφή, ο μέσος αναγνώστης θα χάσει την μπάλα και τα μυαλά του μαζί;
Προσωπικά πιστεύω ότι είχε απόλυτη συναίσθηση του λαβύρινθου που σχεδίασε και στόχος του δεν ήταν να βγούμε από αυτόν κατανοώντας στο έπακρον όλα όσα συνέβησαν στην διαδρομή , αλλά απλά να χαλαρώσουμε και να απολαύσουμε το «χάσιμο» κάτι που μοιραία κάνουν και οι ήρωες του . Η σκέψη αυτή, δυστυχώς, μου πέρασε κάπως αργά από το μυαλό, ήμουν ήδη μετά την μέση του βιβλίου, αλλά μόλις την υιοθέτησα απόλαυσα πολύ περισσότερο την ανάγνωση και το Πιντσονικό σύμπαν. Το ίδιο το μυθιστόρημα άλλωστε δεν κλείνει με κάποιο συγκεκριμένο συμπέρασμα ή σαφή απάντηση γιατί πολύ απλά δεν είναι αυτός ο στόχος.
«Γιατί ήταν τότε σαν να περπατούσε στην μήτρα ενός μεγάλου κομπιούτερ, τα μηδέν και τα ένα ζευγαρωμένα στο πάνω μέρος, κρεμασμένα σαν ισορροπούντα κινητά τεμάχια δεξιά κι αριστερά, μπροστά, πυκνά, ίσως χωρίς τέλος. Πίσω από τις ιερογλυφικές οδούς υπάρχει ή ένα υπερβατικό νόημα ή μόνον γη…Το ένα και το μηδέν. Έτσι ήταν διευθετημένα τα ζεύγη.»
Ολοκληρώνοντας την ανάγνωση είχα την αίσθηση ότι μόλις έκανα έναν τρελό γύρο με τρενάκι στο μυαλό του συγγραφέα, από το οποίο δεν βγήκα αλώβητη, όπως άλλωστε μας προειδοποιεί και το εισαγωγικό σημείωμα, αλλά βγήκα σίγουρα καλύτερη. Γιατί όσο και να με μπέρδεψε/ παίδεψε, αυτό που κατάλαβα, ως ένα σημείο σχεδόν ενστικτωδώς, είναι ότι πρόκειται για ένα κυριολεκτικά μοναδικό βιβλίο.
May 14, 2011
This is one of those books – you know, those books where the author would be too clever by half if he wasn’t so clever to be able to get away with it. There is something very ‘adolescent male’ about this book – accept it is probably just too smart to be really understood by your average adolescent male. It is also, at times, very funny.
I was going to write a review that would be just the string of discordant images this book throws at you at machine-gun speed – but instead I am going to put myself on the line and say this is a book about information theory. Okay, I know it’s not only about that, but stay with me. There’s the postal service – which, if anything, is fundamentally about transmitting information. There is the discussion of entropy and Maxwell’s Demon – two central ideas of info theory. There’s all of the stuff at the start about her having sex with her lawyer and all of the ‘mixed signals’ each is sending the other. There is the will she is trying to sort out – and what is a will if not a final message to the world that invariably needs to be interpreted. And there is the story itself, with so many other stories within stories and allusions and self-references that it is impossible to know what is signal and what is noise.
I thought it was clever, for example, that the husband at the start of the book had worked in a used car lot and had hated it. What is it that the crying of lot 49 means? It is all too easy to say it is a reference to how the book ends – but perhaps it is also a reference to how the book starts and maybe it doesn’t really mean at all. Nothing is simply what it is, nothing is clear, everything is up for interpretation and doesn’t the author stress that fact! There is the lovely line (mentioned at least twice) that of all the alternatives that would explain the particularly strange world our heroine has found herself in, she hopes that her own insanity is the actual explanation. “Oh no, it’s fine, I’m just nuts.”
What is message, what is truth, what is fact and what is reality? Any wonder the guys that started this whole information theory thing said information is entropy and patterns so that as long as there is signal and noise and those can be somewhat separated, that’s as good as it gets, don’t ask for more meaning than that.
This is a very clever book – perhaps too clever, hard to say. I found the homosexual humour particularly funny – the next gay bar they were going to go to was called Finocchio’s (Italian for both fennel and gay man – not quite sure why) and when she left the gay bar she did so via ‘The Greek Way’. All of this is presented completely deadpan – as is the stuff about the band at the start that are an American band trying to learn English accents in a kind of mirror of The Beatles singing in American accents. His songs, dross all, are particularly funny. Especially the one about the various companies involved in the military industrial complex.
I haven’t mentioned the play, LSD, the broken mirror, WASTE, Freud, Gallipoli, the actor who had been a lawyer who is acting a lawyer who had been a child actor and who sometimes goes back to acting even though being a lawyer is pretty much the same as acting anyway. But then, I need to leave you some reason to read this book.
I was going to write a review that would be just the string of discordant images this book throws at you at machine-gun speed – but instead I am going to put myself on the line and say this is a book about information theory. Okay, I know it’s not only about that, but stay with me. There’s the postal service – which, if anything, is fundamentally about transmitting information. There is the discussion of entropy and Maxwell’s Demon – two central ideas of info theory. There’s all of the stuff at the start about her having sex with her lawyer and all of the ‘mixed signals’ each is sending the other. There is the will she is trying to sort out – and what is a will if not a final message to the world that invariably needs to be interpreted. And there is the story itself, with so many other stories within stories and allusions and self-references that it is impossible to know what is signal and what is noise.
I thought it was clever, for example, that the husband at the start of the book had worked in a used car lot and had hated it. What is it that the crying of lot 49 means? It is all too easy to say it is a reference to how the book ends – but perhaps it is also a reference to how the book starts and maybe it doesn’t really mean at all. Nothing is simply what it is, nothing is clear, everything is up for interpretation and doesn’t the author stress that fact! There is the lovely line (mentioned at least twice) that of all the alternatives that would explain the particularly strange world our heroine has found herself in, she hopes that her own insanity is the actual explanation. “Oh no, it’s fine, I’m just nuts.”
What is message, what is truth, what is fact and what is reality? Any wonder the guys that started this whole information theory thing said information is entropy and patterns so that as long as there is signal and noise and those can be somewhat separated, that’s as good as it gets, don’t ask for more meaning than that.
This is a very clever book – perhaps too clever, hard to say. I found the homosexual humour particularly funny – the next gay bar they were going to go to was called Finocchio’s (Italian for both fennel and gay man – not quite sure why) and when she left the gay bar she did so via ‘The Greek Way’. All of this is presented completely deadpan – as is the stuff about the band at the start that are an American band trying to learn English accents in a kind of mirror of The Beatles singing in American accents. His songs, dross all, are particularly funny. Especially the one about the various companies involved in the military industrial complex.
I haven’t mentioned the play, LSD, the broken mirror, WASTE, Freud, Gallipoli, the actor who had been a lawyer who is acting a lawyer who had been a child actor and who sometimes goes back to acting even though being a lawyer is pretty much the same as acting anyway. But then, I need to leave you some reason to read this book.
April 28, 2023
Am înțeles cam tîrziu că e vorba de un roman parodic, de o luare în rîs a cititorului foarte grav, foarte serios, care vrea povești „adevărate”, nu fantezii haotice. Pînă am înțeles acest lucru simplu, lectura a mers destul de lent. După ce am întrezărit, dincolo de text, chipul ironic al prozatorului, m-am destins și m-am putut bucura de lectură.
Lipsită de însemnătate, neverosimilă, amuzantă uneori (scena cu doctorul psihanalist Hilarius e mortală), intriga este numai pretextul unui tur de forță stilistic.
Citez această enumerare:
„S-a mai întîlnit cu un sudor cu o deformație facială, pe care urîțenia sa îl bucura; un copil ce cutreiera în noapte, căruia îi era dor de moartea dinaintea nașterii, așa cum le este dor unor proscriși de vacuitatea adormitoare a comunității; o negresă cu o cicatrice marmorată în chip complicat pe moalele obrazului...; un paznic de noapte în vîrstă, ronțăind dintr-un săpun Ivory...” (p.144).
Și răspunsul nimicitor al protagonistei la întrebarea unui reporter:
„- Cum vi s-a părut acest incident cumplit?
- Cumplit, spuse Oedipa” (p.164).
Un roman instructiv pentru cei care gustă ironia și umorul...
Lipsită de însemnătate, neverosimilă, amuzantă uneori (scena cu doctorul psihanalist Hilarius e mortală), intriga este numai pretextul unui tur de forță stilistic.
Citez această enumerare:
„S-a mai întîlnit cu un sudor cu o deformație facială, pe care urîțenia sa îl bucura; un copil ce cutreiera în noapte, căruia îi era dor de moartea dinaintea nașterii, așa cum le este dor unor proscriși de vacuitatea adormitoare a comunității; o negresă cu o cicatrice marmorată în chip complicat pe moalele obrazului...; un paznic de noapte în vîrstă, ronțăind dintr-un săpun Ivory...” (p.144).
Și răspunsul nimicitor al protagonistei la întrebarea unui reporter:
„- Cum vi s-a părut acest incident cumplit?
- Cumplit, spuse Oedipa” (p.164).
Un roman instructiv pentru cei care gustă ironia și umorul...
July 20, 2022
That's what would come to haunt her most, perhaps: the way it fitted, logically, together.The Crying of Lot 49 follows Oedipa Maas, a married woman who learns one day that she has been named as the executrix of the estate of a wealthy former lover, Pierce Inverarity. Her duties take her to places she’s never been, and introduce her to several new and very strange people. But most of all, Oedipa begins finding clues about the possible existence of a shadowy, underground postal organization called the Tristero that people thought had been believed defeated by Thurn und Taxis in some kind of postal battle in the 1700s. And I say “possible existence” because Oedipa is never sure if the clues she’s following about the Tristero are an elaborate prank by the recently departed Pierce, or if she’s falling for conspiracy theories and slowly going mad ….
…
Oedipa wondered whether, at the end of this (if it were supposed to end), she too might not be left with only compiled memories of clues, announcements, intimations, but never the central truth itself, which must somehow each time be too bright for her memory to hold; which must always blaze out, destroying its own message irreversibly, leaving an overexposed blank when the ordinary world came back.
…
“I came,” she said, “hoping you could talk me out of a fantasy.”
“Cherish it!” cried Hilarius, fiercely. “What else do any of you have? Hold it tightly by it’s little tentacle, don’t let the Freudians coax it away or the pharmacists poison it out of you. Whatever it is, hold it dear, for when you lose it you go over by that much to the others. You begin to cease to be.”
Every time I see the description for Mr. Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow, I think ‘that sounds cool, I should read it sometime.’ But The Crying of Lot 49 is considered Mr. Pynchon’s most accessible novel, which does not bode well for me because I’m still not really sure what this book is supposed to be about. Maybe drug use and alienation, and/or the difficulties people have communicating with each other? It’s definitely a satire, funny in places, and there’s some interesting stuff in here—an elaborate revenge play within the novel, and an exploration of a philosophical thought experiment about entropy called Maxwell’s Demon—but I know I didn’t get everything out of it that was there (why all the odd character names like “Genghis Cohen”?). Then again, later in his career Mr. Pynchon himself criticized this book “in which I seem to have forgotten most of what I thought I'd learned up until then.” So maybe my struggles with the novel are more forgivable.
The Crying of Lot 49 didn’t really work for me. But If it sounds remotely interesting to you (or if, like me, it’s on a list of the top 100 novels of all time that you’re working your way through), give it a go. It’s short, and you’ll know within 20 pages whether you want to keep reading or not. 2.5 stars rounded up to 3.
October 20, 2013
Where do you start with a novel like this. There are so many trails and plays with words and their meaning that it is dizzying. There is a central character called Oedipa who becomes co-executor of an ex flames estate and inadvertantly steps into what may or may not be a global conspiracy stretching back through the ages.
Lots of interesting characters turn up and may (or may not) be part of the conspiracy. Oedipa's therapist turns out to be an ex-Nazi who worked in Buchenwald and there is an ongoing Beatles theme in the form of an American group who sing with English accents called the Paranoids. I am not sure if Pynchon knew that that the Beatles called themselves Los Para Noias. There is a nod to Nabakov and contained within the novel is a fictional Jacobean revenge play. There is also a lot about the postal system and stamps. As I am a reformed (I may even say ex) philatelist, all this was interesting and I recognised some of the symbols as watermarks I have known! (Sad, I know).
There are lots of other themes; entropy to name but one; and the conspiracy races away in a pleasing and slightly sinister manner. I enjoy a good conspiracy theory (having been slightly embroiled in a couple in the 80s (a whole other story)).
On the whole it was pleasingly entertaining; if it has an equivalent for children it would keep them quiet in the back of the car for hours.What exactly Pynchon meant by it all I am not entirley sure; possibly like some of its protagonists, a little too much LSD amy have been taken!
Lots of interesting characters turn up and may (or may not) be part of the conspiracy. Oedipa's therapist turns out to be an ex-Nazi who worked in Buchenwald and there is an ongoing Beatles theme in the form of an American group who sing with English accents called the Paranoids. I am not sure if Pynchon knew that that the Beatles called themselves Los Para Noias. There is a nod to Nabakov and contained within the novel is a fictional Jacobean revenge play. There is also a lot about the postal system and stamps. As I am a reformed (I may even say ex) philatelist, all this was interesting and I recognised some of the symbols as watermarks I have known! (Sad, I know).
There are lots of other themes; entropy to name but one; and the conspiracy races away in a pleasing and slightly sinister manner. I enjoy a good conspiracy theory (having been slightly embroiled in a couple in the 80s (a whole other story)).
On the whole it was pleasingly entertaining; if it has an equivalent for children it would keep them quiet in the back of the car for hours.What exactly Pynchon meant by it all I am not entirley sure; possibly like some of its protagonists, a little too much LSD amy have been taken!
January 3, 2008
Harold Bloom (and apparently everyone else I know) is clearly out of his G.D. mind. This book is not hilariously funny. I did not appreciate the humor in this book at all. I liked the bit about the play but the book seemed too cutesy and gimmicky to me. I've been looking at reviews all over and (much like the reviews for the film No Country for Old Men) I seem only to find the same old enthusiastic descriptions of the book and no compelling reason for why I should appreciate the longest 183 page book I've ever read. A W.A.S.T.E. of time?
October 2, 2020
TP number three for me, and the one that made the least sense, hence the three stars.
A thundersome, scorching, paranoid, strange, rollicking novel, one of a kind. A constant circling in on reflections that may be reality, or a simulacrum of reality, or just a dead end where you will bang your head against the nearest wall muttering WTF!. Don't want to bring on a headache writing a detailed review, so briefly - the novel centres on Oedipa Maas, and an estate to settle in the wake of her former partner's death. She distrusts those around her, and fears that something weird, and possibly dangerous, may be lurking behind the scenes. (There is a shadowy group known as the Tristero). It sort of reads like a conspiracy mystery with TV and film metaphors, which began actually really well, but then it started to expand with character upon character, and seemingly runs around clueless like a headless chicken on Tequila and coke (That's the white powered stuff, not the fizzy drink). It's messy, but it's the sort of mess you may come to love. Not me, at least yet, maybe a second read would be beneficial some time.
A thundersome, scorching, paranoid, strange, rollicking novel, one of a kind. A constant circling in on reflections that may be reality, or a simulacrum of reality, or just a dead end where you will bang your head against the nearest wall muttering WTF!. Don't want to bring on a headache writing a detailed review, so briefly - the novel centres on Oedipa Maas, and an estate to settle in the wake of her former partner's death. She distrusts those around her, and fears that something weird, and possibly dangerous, may be lurking behind the scenes. (There is a shadowy group known as the Tristero). It sort of reads like a conspiracy mystery with TV and film metaphors, which began actually really well, but then it started to expand with character upon character, and seemingly runs around clueless like a headless chicken on Tequila and coke (That's the white powered stuff, not the fizzy drink). It's messy, but it's the sort of mess you may come to love. Not me, at least yet, maybe a second read would be beneficial some time.
March 2, 2022
The start was really promising. Although the rest wasn’t bad I felt like the beginning was the best part. Or maybe I got tired of the quirkiness?
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