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Ας γυρίσω σπίτι σκέφτεσαι. Βρίσκεις παρκάρισμα ακριβώς απέξω, σταθμεύεις, κατεβαίνεις, ψευτοχαμογελάς δεν ξέρεις γιατί χαίρεσαι κουτά που πάρκαρες αλφάδι. Ξεκλειδώνεις και μπαίνεις στο βασίλειο σου. Το φως είναι απαλό, μυστήριο συνήθως αφήνεις ένα πορτατίφ με σκληρή λάμψη, ώστε άμα γυρίζεις βράδυ οι κλέφτες να νομίζουν πως κάποιος είναι μέσα. Μπροστά σου βλέπεις ένα κύριο παχύ κι ατσούμπαλο, σε κοιτάει μ’ ενδιαφέρον, αλλά ανοίγει την πόρτα και φεύγει, πίσω του πέφτει ένα κομματάκι χαρτί, σκέφτεσαι ίχνος θα ‘ναι, μα όταν τ’ αγγίζεις δεν είναι παρά ίνες από κωλόχαρτο.

Προχωράς περισσότερο –τι διάολο πως μεγάλωσε έτσι το σπίτι σου – συναντάς ένα κύριο που φορά λοξά ένα σεντόνι μπεζ, έχεις ήδη αρχίσει να παραλογίζεσαι, λες θα ‘ν αι κανάς αρχαίος απ’ αυτούς που βαριέσαι να διαβάζεις και παράτησες μαζί με το σχολείο, αντ’ αυτού τον ακούς να μονολογεί πως κάπου άφησε το Seiko του και δεν το βρίσκει κι έπειτα φεύγει χοροπηδηχτός. Μιας και το σκέφτηκες όμως ένας νεαρός, με μούσι και ακουστικά στο λαιμό, κρατά ένα παλιό ντίσκμαν, σε κοιτάει επιτιμιτικά ‘’γιατί’’ σε ρωτά ‘’άφησες τα αντικείμενα να σε κατευθύνουν; Έχει το αμάξι ψυχή; Γιατί όταν οδηγείς ώρες πολλές φιλάς το τιμόνι και του λες κάτι χαϊδευτικό, το νιώθεις ως επέκταση σου, όταν φεύγεις τσαντισμένος απ’ τη γκόμενα και λες θα με δει να περνώ με τ’ αμάξι και η εικόνα μας δικιά μου και τ’ αμαξιού θα την κάνει να νιώσει δέος γιατί είναι σα να προσπερνώ εγώ, μα είσαι εσύ που νιώθεις δέος, ματαιόδοξα για τον εαυτό σου που βρήκες τη δύναμη να φύγεις’’, όχι ρε δε σ’ αφήνει περιθώριο να απαντήσεις, σε παρατά και προχωρεί συνεχίζει να μιλάει, να αναρωτιέται, να φοβάται πως άργησε πολύ κι ο κόσμος πια είναι αιχμάλωτος των αντικειμένων, γι’ αυτό και τα κτίρια ερωτεύονται, οι κάδοι παραλογίζονται κι όλοι ζουν με το κεφάλι χαμηλά, προσπαθώντας ν’ αποκτήσουν. Μονολογεί μόνος του, ‘’άργησες Επίκτητε! Άργησες’’ με απογοήτευση. Μα γιατί αποκαλεί τον εαυτό του σε τρίτο πρόσωπο??? Και πως μπορεί να είναι ο Επίκτητος; Τι μυστήρια είναι αυτά;

Αυτή τη φιγούρα την ξέρεις παρακάτω, κλασική φιγούρα Αϊνστάϊν. Έχεις πια καταλάβεις, δε θα σου φανεί παράξενο αν απ’ τα χείλη του δεις να βγαίνει ένα συννεφάκι – όχι το Ερωτευμένο – με εξισώσεις, αλλά αντ’ αυτού μιλάει … ιταλικά! Κι όμως εσύ περιέργως καταλαβαίνεις. Συζητά με ένα μελαγχολικό νεαρό, το βλέμμα σου πάει στη βιβλιοθήκη σου που φαίνεται ίδια, και καταλαβαίνεις πως ο Επιστήμων δίνει κουράγιο στον Καλβίνο, μόλις είχε γράψει τη Φωτογραφία. Ναι του λέει θα γίνουν επέκταση μας όλες μας οι επινοήσεις, δε θα μας βοηθούν, θα μας κατευθύνουν, θα κρυσταλλωνόμαστε σε πλαστές στημένες εικόνες, όλοι όμορφοι να περνάμε φανταστικά, βλέποντας στην προέκταση του χεριού μας συνδεδεμένα ηλεκτρονικά φωτογραφικά άλμπουμ –μόλις κατάλαβες ότι μιλάει για το κινητό τηλέφωνο – τρομάζεις, τώρα πια ξέρεις πως το V σε διαβάζει, όχι εσύ αυτό. Πως είναι δυνατόν, ο Pynchon να βλέπει καθαρά όλα αυτά το 1961 κι εσύ να είσαι τυφλός;;; Και γιατί ο Σπινόζα –ο Σπινόζα δεν είν’ αυτός; - ανταγωνίζεται στο ατάρι με ένα παπά; Αυτοί με τις πιτζάμες που τους πετούν σαϊτες μοιάζουν με το νεαρό Μαρξ και τη Μαρί Κιουρί. Ο Ένγκελς γιατί τρώει μαζί με τον Κόνραντ;

Παρακάτω μια δεσποινίδα, όχι πολύ όμορφη, κοιτιέται σ’ έναν ατομικό καθρέφτη εντατικά κ σημειώνει σε κάποιο χαρτί κάτω απ’ τον τίτλο ‘’Αλλαγές’', έπειτα βλέπεις το βιβλίο πεταμένο καταγής, ήταν κάποιο θρησκευτικό βιβλίο που δεν ξέρεις αν αναγνωρίζεις. Δίπλα της τσακώνονται κι είναι έτοιμοι ν’ αρπαχτούν δυο τύποι. Αναγνωρίζεις σ’ εκείνον με την ένρινη φωνή και τα υγρά μάτια, το Χέγκελ, έτσι λες μέσα σου επιτόπου πως ο άλλος με τα λιωμένα παπούτσια πρέπει να ‘ναι ο Σοπενάουερ, μα μια φράση σε κάνει ν’ αλλάξεις γνώμη, δεν είσαι σίγουρος και τότε μια άλλη κοπέλα, όμορφη αλλά όχι σέξι, γυμνή, με στρογγυλά στήθη και ένα τσιγάρο στα χείλη σου ψιθυρίζει πως είναι ο Φόϋερμπαχ. Ουφ! Ποιος είναι πάλι τούτος; Δεν μπαίνεις στον κόπο να το σκεφτείς περισσότερο, αν και κάτι ψυχανεμίζεσαι για πνεύματα, θρησκείες, εκπαιδεύσεις, τέχνες, που ν’ ασχολείσαι, κάποιος τρελός συνειρμός του Πύντσον θα ‘ναι.

Αχά! Αυτή η φάτσα είναι ελληνόφατσα, στέκει δίπλα σ’ ένα κοκκινοπρόσωπο φανερά μονόχνωτο τυπάκο, χοντρό με ξενέρωτα, αταίριαστα ρούχα κ παραδίπλα ένας πολύ σκούρος σαραντάρης με τριμμένο λαδί παντελόνι από τσόχα και πουκάμισο καρό. Τα μάτια σου κάνουν πουλάκια, σου μοιάζουν σαν τις τρεις χάριτες του 90 από ‘κεινο το κανάλι που σου ‘μαθε πως πρέπει να σκέφτονται οι άνθρωποι, αλλά όχι είναι άλλοι, δεν τους ξέρεις. Σε κοιτούν κι αναφωνούν μαζί ‘’η πολιτική είναι ψέμα’’ σε μια γλώσσα που τώρα πια καταλαβαίνεις πως είναι το μιξ που φοβόταν ο Καβάφης όταν έγραφε το Ποσειδωνιάται. Ακούγοντας τον Έλληνα, κάνεις φόκους και είναι σα να τον βλέπεις να σκέφτεται τον πρωθυπουργό του, αδιαφορείς για τη ματαιοδοξία στα λόγια του Άγγλου, θέλει να τον προσέξεις, μυρμήγκια σε ξύνουν παντού κοιτώντας τον Άραβα, ξέρεις πως είναι φανατισμένος. Μα που τα ξέρεις όλα αυτά, αναρωτιέσαι και με τέτοια βεβαιότητα….οι τρεις Χάριτοι ενώνονται, γίνονται μια πανέμορφη κοπέλα, αέρινη, πάλλευκη σε πλησιάζει, περιμένεις το φιλί, σου δαγκώνει το κάτω χείλος με δύναμη, ερωτικό μα και πονάει, σε χαστουκίζει, ψιθυρίζει ‘’όλα είναι σε μια διάσταση, ψάξε’’ κι εξαφανίζεται…

Πανδαισίες χρωμάτων που ποτέ σου δε φαντάστηκες περνούν από μπροστά σου, δε στέκονται, στη μια εσύ, στην άλλη ένας γέρος κοιτάζει περίλυπος, ίσως είναι ο πατέρας σου και σαν φωτοστέφανο από πάνω του θαρρείς πως βλέπεις μια ρωμαλέα φασματική μορφή του από κάποιο παρελθόν, δεν κατάλαβα το αστείο σου γνέφει και καταλαβαίνεις κι ας μην ανταλλάξατε ούτε λέξη πως υπάρχει ένας ολόκληρος γκρεμός ανάμεσα σας, είναι εκείνος που δίνει, ο γιός στον πατέρα κι ας μη λησμονεί ποτέ την εποχή των χρόνων που γεννήθηκε κι είν’ ο πατέρας που δίνει, σ’ εκείνον που παίρνει το γιο, ενσταλάζει ότι κέρδισε με κόπο, τα πιο πολύτιμα μυστικά που μπόρεσε να βρει, μ’ αγάπη να μεταδώσει στο γιο του. Στο κέντρο όλων μια Βαβέλ. Τον βλέπεις πανώριο αυτό τον πύργο που υψώνεται κι υψώνεται διαρκώς μα τίποτα δε φαίνεται απειλητικό, έτοιμο θαρρείς να τον γκρεμίσει. Μια εξέγερση, ναι το περιμένεις, να μυρίσεις το αίμα, να βρεις τα κίνητρα για να λες αυτό είναι ζωή, χρόνια μετά σε κάποιο καναπέ, να γλυκαίνεσαι που κάποτε πήρες τα όπλα για πολέμους που δεν κατάλαβες, μα που σου δώσανε μια ευκαιρία να βρεις ένα κάποιο ιδανικό.

Παραισθησία λέξεων, τόσες πολλές, τόσο μεγάλες, συνεχόμενες εξισώσεις λέξεων, πεπλεγμένες, με αγνώστους που δεν χωρίζονται κι ας είναι καταστάσεις υπαρκτές μόνο για όσους εμπλέκονται και συνηθισμένο νερό που κυλά και χάνεται στους υπονόμους, για όλους τους υπόλοιπους. Σαν ασημένιες, γυαλιστερές, θανατηφόρες μπίλιες εκτοξεύονται παντού οι χίλιες ιστορίες του καθενός και ολονών μας. Και κάθε τόσο η μεγάλη ιστορία αναγεννιέται μέσα από αναβρασμό και κάτω απ’ την ανάγκη κι από κάθε νέα Τροία, η Ελένη ξανά και ξανά. Υποβόσκει στο βλέμμα σου, στον ακκισμό που έκανε εκείνο το αγόρι κάθε που πέρναγες απ’ το μαγαζί του και τώρα σου φέρεται εχθρικά, στα ψιλά στο πορτοφολάκι το οβάλ που έγινε πάλι της μόδας με την έλευση του ευρώ, στο φασίστα που φωνάζει από κάποιο βήμα, στην ειρωνεία ενός δολοπλόκου δημοκρατικού, σε κάποιο κείμενο στο ίντερνετ, στη στημένη φωτογραφία που εκλιπαρεί για προσοχή, η Ελένη. Η μεγάλη θεά της επιθυμίας που προκάλεσε χίλιους πολέμους, που εξυμνείται απ’ τα έμβολα όταν βάζεις μπροστά το αυτοκίνητο, στο φως που ανάβει με το πάνω και σβήνει με το κάτω, στη σελίδα που γυρνάει δεξιά κι αριστερά, αλλά απ’ το πλάϊ είναι πάνω – κάτω. Γιατί παντού βρίσκεται ο έρωτας. Να ξεσκίσει, να ενσωματώσει, να κοροϊδέψει όλους τους πιστούς, η ιστορία καθενός και όλων μας. Η Ελένη.

Αυτό που θαυμάζω στον Πύντσον είναι πως πρόκειται για πραγματικό συγγραφέα, στο είδος του και θεωρώ πως γι’ αυτό παραμένει αφανής. Ο συγγραφέας που είναι βυθισμένος στην αυτάρκεια του εαυτού του και βαυκαλίζεται με την αναγνωρισιμότητα ( κανένας μας δε μπορεί να αρνηθεί πως απολαμβάνει κάπου – κάπου ένα μικρό ποσό ματαιοδοξίας ) στερεί απ’ το γραπτό του κι από ‘μας κάτι πολύ σημαντικό: Δε μπορεί να κυκλοφορήσει ελεύθερος, ελεύθερα και να μιλήσει με τον οποιονδήποτε, να κινηθεί σε όλα μήκη και τις συχνότητες. Οι άνθρωποι να του κρυφτούν, να του αποκαλυφτούν, να έχει την ευκαιρία να τους μάθει, να τους δαμάσει, να τους αποστηθίσει, να σκεφτεί πάνω σε όσα βλέπει και να υψωθεί τελικά η φωνή του για όλους μας: να μοιραστεί, να προσφέρει, να βοηθήσει. Και ο Πύντσον αυτό ήθελε πάντοτε να κάνει, να μπορεί να κυκλοφορεί, να μαθαίνει, να επεξεργάζεται και να αποκαλύπτει, να ζητάει το λόγο.

Τα κείμενα του είναι δυσνόητα, χαοτικά, σκοτεινά και γι’ αυτό δεν έχει αποκτήσει εχθρούς. Θέλει σκέψη και θέληση για να διαβάσεις Πύντσον. Υπάρχουν πέντε τρόποι για να περιγράψεις μια βόλτα με τα πόδια που κάθε τόσο γυρνάς το κεφάλι δεξιά, μετά αριστερά, κάπου στέκεσαι, αλλού αλλάζεις πορεία και παρατηρείς, παίρνεις το χρόνο σου να καταγράψεις, να διαλογιστείς, να μυρίσεις. Γιατί υπάρχουν πέντε τρόποι; Γιατί δε μπορείς να συμπεριλάβεις τα πάντα, επειδή δεν είσαι ο Πύντσον. Θα περιγράψεις στη γκόμενα σου κάτι που σου έκανε εντύπωση, ένα επεισόδιο που είδες να εκτυλίσσεται μπροστά σου, κάποιο αντικειμενάκι σε μια βιτρίνα που σε τράβηξε, μια γιαγιά που δε μάζεψε το σκατό του σκύλου και το πάτησες, αλλά όχι όλα. Δε θα αντλήσεις από όλα, τουλάχιστον άμεσα. Θα παραμείνουν όμως σαν εικόνα για κάποιο καιρό μέσα σου, στη σκέψη σου. Ο Πύντσον είναι σαν τη σκέψη σου, θα περιγράψει τα πάντα, στο χρόνο που συμβαίνουν, δηλαδή τώρα. Όλα τα φόντα μαζί, όλες τις κινήσεις, όλους τους ανθρώπους. Θα το κάνει με ενάργεια αλλά σαν τις αχτίδες του ήλιου σε μια στυλώνεις το βλέμμα, δε μπορείς σε όλες μαζί. Γι’ αυτό και τα γραπτά του είναι λίγο απ’ όλα, λίγο λογοτεχνία, λίγο φιλοσοφία, δημοσιογραφία, φιλοσοφική ανάλυση, ψυχολογική προσπάθεια.

Τι στην ευχή είναι το V. ; Θα περάσω καλά αν το ξεκινήσω; Δε σας κρύβω πως όταν το παρήγγειλα δεν είχα προσέξει τα χαρακτηριστικά του, φανταζόμουν ότι είναι λεπτούλι σαν το 49, ένα λεπτούλι τούβλο. Και έρχεται η παραγγελία, σχεδόν 700 σελίδες. Αποκαρδιώθηκα, δε θεώρησα τον εαυτό μου ικανό ν’ ανταπεξέλθει σε κάτι τέτοιο, όχι με τρόπο τουλάχιστον που θα με ξεκουράσει και θα με διασκεδάσει, γιατί με το 49 διασκέδασα, την καταβρήκα. Κοινό τους χαρακτηριστικό είναι το κυνήγι του θησαυρού, ψάχνεις κι όσο ψάχνεις βρίσκεις. Αυτά που θες, εκείνα που δε θες κι εκείνα που δε σκέφτηκες για να δεις αν θες. Ξέρεις πάντως πως όταν η Ρέιτσελ περπατάει πάνω στη σχάρα με επιδεξιότητα πλέον χωρίς να σπάει τα τακούνια της πως είναι σα να τη βλέπεις, αέρινη, γατόπαρδη, να διασχίζει τη Θησέως, ή το Ρίβερσαϊντ Παρκ. Και έχεις κάνει ήδη εικόνα τις φορές που με τη γκρι μάλλινη φούστα, τσακισμένη απ’ τη δουλειά, της έσπαγε και το τακούνι και διαολόστελνε όλη την ημέρα.

Από ‘κει και πέρα πρόκειται για τρομερά στριφνό και δύσκολο βιβλίο. Μπορείς να διασκεδάσεις μαζί του αναμφίβολα και να ονειρευτείς πάνω σε σκέψεις σου που τώρα γεννιούνται. Κάποια θέματα είναι σπουδαία για το 1961 αλλά όχι για το 2017, κάποια άλλα παραμένουν, ορισμένα δεν τα ‘χες σκεφτεί ποτέ έτσι. Ουπς! Να τώρα δα, χάθηκες, δεν καταλαβαίνεις τι διαβάζεις, πρέπει να γυρίσεις πίσω, ναι αλλά πόσο πίσω, που πίσω; Είναι κουραστικό, είναι σπαστικό, αλλά αξίζει τον κόπο, νομίζω. Και δεν έχει να κάνει με τη δική μου υπερφυσική διάνοια. Ηλίθιος είμαι. Αλλά ο οποιοσδήποτε μπορεί να το καταλάβει, ή να καταλάβει όσα θα μιλήσουν στη γλώσσα του, πρέπει όμως να το θέλει πολύ και να το παλέψει.

Δε μ’ ενδιαφέρει το κεντρικό μήνυμα, δε με νοιάζει η φύση του V όπως δε μ’ ένοιαξε και του Τρίστερου η συνολική διάσταση. Τις βλέπω, δεν τις συνδέω γιατί δεν είμαι πολύ έξυπνος, ή είμαι πολύ τεμπέλης για να σκεφτώ περισσότερο, ή όλα αυτά μπορεί να στα γράφω για να σε πείσω και να με πείσω πως δε με νοιάζει επειδή αδυνατώ να καταλάβω. Μπορεί να είναι κι έτσι, αλλά φυσικά είμαι αλαζόνας όπως όλοι μας, προτιμώ να πιστεύω πως κατάλαβα. Αυτό που άξιζε όμως και το ξέρω είναι η διαδρομή, το σύνολο.

Μου αρέσει η φλόγα του νεαρού Πύντσον, ο τρόπος που τον επηρεάζει ο πόλεμος. Είτε έχει θύματα τους Μπόερ, είτε είναι παγκόσμιος. Παθιάζομαι μαζί του. Υπάρχουν κάποιες σελίδες αστείρευτης ομορφιάς, ζοφερότητας και αλήθειας, << με την έννοια της εφικτής ακρίβειας >>, όπως γράφει κι ο ίδιος ο Πύντσον. Αυτή που απαλλαγμένη από κάθε μεταφυσική χροιά, αγγίζει μόνο το υπαρκτό, το απτό, ρέει προς τα σπλάχνα, τους πνεύμονες, τα πόδια. Κι επίσης, μου αρέσουν τέτοια βιβλία διότι μας τονίζουν, ότι δεν πόνεσαν μόνο οι Εβραίοι και οι Έλληνες. Πολλοί λαοί και άνθρωποι γενικά υπήρξαν θύματα των πολέμων. Και Γερμανοί. Ας μην το αγνοούμε αυτό, σαν τα άρθρα που εμφανίζονται κατά καιρούς για να θυμηθούν γνωστές εταιρίες που βγάζουν μίξερ ή αυτοκίνητα, λες και φταίει ντε και καλά η Γερμανία για τη δική μας παράλογη κακοδιαχείριση. Αλλά αυτά μάλλον δεν ανήκουν εδώ.

Ωστόσο επειδή η ιστορία επαναλαμβάνεται και είναι αυτή που ξεχνάμε, ενώ θυμόμαστε ονόματα που δεν έχουν καμιά σχέση μ’ εμάς, κάτι που είχε προβλέψει βέβαια αιώνες πριν ο Σενέκας και που σαν ονόματα ( θα συμφωνούσε κι ο Πύντσον σ’ αυτό ) δηλαδή λέξεις ασύνδετες δε διαφέρουν σε τίποτα από άψυχα αντικείμενα και ο Πύντσον σε αυτό το βιβλίο τονίζει την ημιτονοειδή γραφική παράσταση τόσο της ιστορίας, όσο και της παρακμής, δεν είμαι εντελώς παράλογος που έκανα αυτή τη σύνδεση, αν και προφανώς παραμένω εντελώς εκτός θέματος.

Αλλά ο πόλεμος δεν είναι μόνο μπαμ μπουμ. Έχει διάφορες μορφές, όσο και διάφορες εντάσεις. Κάποιες φορές θα σας έλεγε η Πάολα είναι εσωτερικός, άλλοτε ανάμεσα σε δύο και κάπου κάπου ξεσπάει γενικά και παρασέρνει τα πάντα. Κι έπειτα ξυπνάς μια μέρα και λες, εδώ θα συμφωνούσε ο Φάουστο, ο Μοντάουγκεν κι ίσως και ο γέρο – Πλωτάρχης πως έχει φως κι ας είναι μελαγχολικό, μα πως μπορεί να είναι μελαγχολικό το φως. Και βγαίνεις έξω κι όλα όσα δεν έβλεπες, τα νιώθεις και όλα εκείνα που σε κρατούσαν πίσω, θα τα δεις κάποια στιγμή συντρίμμια και θα λυπηθείς, θα συνδεθείς με την συθέμελη καταστροφή τους και θα χάσεις κάτι απ’ τη μαγεία. Ύστερα κι η τελευταία στάλα του κράσου θα φύγει από μέσα σου και θα θυμηθείς τον πόλεμο, ή τους πολέμους που ζεις. Ίσως και να προσευχηθείς. Ευτυχώς βέβαια κάτι θα σου αποσπάσει την προσοχή, να σου αποδείξει πως << μόνο οι άγιοι, ή οι παράφρονες μπορούν να προσηλώνονται >> πεισματικά για ώρες. Οι καμπύλες των ημιτόνων θα συνεχιστούν. Νίκες ή ήττες, κορυφές, ή παρακμές, πόλεμοι, ή …

Μου αρέσουν επίσης οι διάλογοι αν και νομίζω πως θα τρελάνουν αρκετούς αναγνώστες. Δεν έχουν καμία απολύτως τάξη, ή σειρά, ούτε καν ευθείες απαντήσεις. Αλλά μαντέψτε κάτι! Αν απομονώσετε ένα τυχαίο διάλογο, δεν υπάρχει περίπτωση μετά να δείτε κάτι διαφορετικό απ’ τους διαλόγους του Πύντσον, όταν μιλάτε με την κολλητή σας, τη μητέρα σας, ή ένα συνάδελφο. Ας μην πιάσουμε τις σχέσεις εκεί το σουρρεάλ είναι ρεάλ. Και νομίζω με πιάνετε. Μετά μπαίνεις σε σκέψεις σχετικά με τους διαλόγους σε άλλα βιβλία και το στρωτό μοιάζει σαν ανταλλαγή θεατρικών μονολόγων.

Μπορεί ένα πρωτόλειο έργο να είναι τέλειο; Η υπερβατικότητα του θαυμασμού μου γι’ αυτό το βιβλίο σας πείθει ότι θα πω ναι. Αλλά η απάντηση είναι όχι, τουλάχιστον όχι αυτό το πρωτόλειο. Έχει τα ελαττώματα του. Το πρώτο είναι πως σε κάποια σημεία φλυαρεί άσκοπα, χωρίς ωστόσο να επαναλαμβάνεται.

Το δεύτερο είναι πως, θα έχετε παρατηρήσει ότι αρκετοί συγγραφείς στα πρώτα τους βήματα χρησιμοποιούν τα σημεία αναφοράς τους, δηλώνοντας τα και περισσότερο εξετάζοντας τα θεωρητικά, ως ιδέες, ή σαν εσωτερικές αντιμαχίες. Με αποτέλεσμα να δίνουν την εντύπωση πως πετάνε ονόματα και αντιγράφουν τσιτάτα. Ο Πύντσον δεν κάνει αυτό. Κατ’ αρχήν δεν υπάρχει ούτε μια θεωρία, ή φιλοσοφία που να δίνεται αυτούσια και να ακολουθεί τελεία, παρά μόνο ύστερα από επεξεργασία που την έχει βουτήξει μέσα στα προσωπικά του βιώματα και την έχει μετατρέψει σε ιστορία. Κατά κάποιο τρόπο η μέθοδος των παραβολών του Βολταίρου, χωρίς όμως να δανείζεται αυτό το στιλ.

Είναι σοβαρός, με στιβαρές κατασκευές που δεν ξεφεύγουν από πουθενά με σκοπό όχι να σε κάνει να σκεφτείς, όχι όπως ο Βολταίρος μέσω της υπερβολής και της αντιπαραβολής, αλλά αντλώντας απ’ τη θέση τη φύση, ως απόρροια σκέψης που έγινε πράξη. Πού είναι το κακό σ’ αυτό; Το ‘’κακό’’ είναι πως σε κάποιες περιπτώσεις αλλά όχι σε όλες φαίνονται οι ραφές. Έχει κάνει κτήμα του τη σκέψη, αλλά όχι τη θεωρία, κατά κάποιο τρόπο σα να λύνει ένα πρόβλημα μαθηματικών, γράφει τη θεωρία που θα χρησιμοποιήσει αυτολεξεί και προχωράει στην απόδειξη και αυτό το αυτολεξεί κουράζει. Αλλά σε αντίθεση με άλλους, δεν είναι επίδειξη γνώσεων.

Ορισμένοι χαρακτήρες υπάρχουν μόνο σαν ονόματα αλλά δε διακρίνεται αυτή η αλλαγή ‘’προσωπικότητας’’, ή άλλοι μένουν ουσιαστικά αχαρτογράφητοι, περισσότερο σα να γεμίζουν το χώρο.

Στο κεφάλαιο των εξομολογήσεων του Φάουστο, o ΙV που είναι και ο βασικός συγγραφέας δε διαφέρει σε τίποτα απ’ το στιλ του ίδιου του Πύντσον, δε γδύνεται το ρόλο του αφηγητή για να ντυθεί αυτόν του IV. Και επίσης ο IV μάς αναλύει τις αλλαγές μεταξύ Ι, ΙΙ και ΙΙΙ αλλά πρακτικά μόνο μετά την σελίδα 440 περίπου γίνεται σαφές, ότι ο ΙΙΙ είναι ξεχωριστός. Ναι μεν καταλαβαίνω πως όλοι τους είναι παραλλαγές του ίδιου πυρήνα, αλλά με τις αλλαγές φάσεων που προηγούνται στους προλόγους, περίμενα να το δω κιόλας και επίσης ήθελα να δω αυτό που είδα στην περίπτωση του Μοντάουγκεν που πραγματικά πέρα απ’ τα σημεία αυτοστοχασμού του Πύντσον απουσιάζει εντελώς κι είναι σα να βρίσκεται στο χώρο μόνο ο Μοντάουγκεν. Εδώ όμως ο Φάουστο IV και ο Πύντσον – αφηγητής – στοχαστής – σκηνοθέτης είναι ένα και το αυτό.

Ωστόσο, το σκηνικό αυτό αλλάζει θεαματικά απ’ τη βόλτα στον κήπο μετά την επιδρομή, του Φάουστο και της Έλενα. Νομίζω πως σε περιγραφικότητα κ σε μετάδοση συναισθημάτων και δη ανασφάλειας, πόνου, πίκρας, εσωτερικής μάχης, δηλαδή όλων των συναισθημάτων με θετικό πρόσημο αφού τραβούν προς μια διέξοδο, είναι από τις ωραιότερες που έχω συναντήσει φέτος σε βιβλία και μπορεί να συγκριθεί με ορισμένες αντίστοιχες, απ’ τη Νύχτα της Λισαβόνας. Παρακάτω μου άρεσε που διαφώνησα με τον Πύντσον σχετικά με το αν ο Φάουστο έπρεπε να πει στην Πάολα για την αποκάλυψη της Έλενα, δεδομένων των συνθηκών. Επίσης, φρίκιασα με την τιμωρία των παιδιών στον παπά και αναφέρομαι στην λεκτική τιμωρία και όχι στο ξεγύμνωμα, πολύ λιγότερο σ’ αυτό. Ακόμη, δε φρίκιασα λιγότερο στο πρώτο όνειρο του Μοντάουγκεν με τη γάτα. Τέλος πάντων, από τον κήπο και μετά απογειώνεται το κεφάλαιο κατακόρυφα σαν τα Ρώσικα αεροσκάφη. Ο Πύντσον και ο Φάουστο διαχωρίζονται ολοκληρωτικά.

Για κάποιο λόγο συνειρμικά πάντοτε ως τώρα συνδύαζα τον Φάουστ του Γκαίτε με τη Θεία Κωμωδία του Δάντη και μου φάνηκε ενδιαφέρον ότι ο Φάουστο περνάει από διάφορα στάδια που θυμίζουν τη Θεία Κωμωδία. Βέβαια κάποιες παρόμοιες σκέψεις, όχι σε σχέση με τη Θεία Κωμωδία, με άλλα θέματα, τόσο για την Οιδίπα, για να πεταχτώ λίγο στους 49 όπως και κάτι άλλο, επεξεργαζόμουν επίσης σχετικά με το επώνυμο της Βέρα. Αλλά αυτά ίσως είναι προτιμότερο να αποτελέσουν τροφή για σκέψη καθενός προσωπικά.

Και νομίζω ότι χάρη στον Πύντσον και το Στίρνερ κατάλ��βα πως μάλλον έκρινα λίγο άδικα το Φρομ σε ό,τι αφορά το γλωσσικό προγραμματισμό. Μερικές φορές είναι πραγματικά σα να μου ψιθυρίζει ο Σοπενάουερ στ’ αυτί ‘’στα ‘λεγα εγώ’’, ότι το πώς λέγεται κάτι και όχι το τι, είναι εκείνο που δίνει αξία διότι μπορεί να σώσει ανθρώπους από άλλα, πως, που μπορεί να ήταν σωστά, αλλά με τον τρόπο τους, τούς έδιωξαν μακριά.

Χρήσιμα γκατζετάκια πριν ή μετά το V:
Η κόψη του ξυραφιού του Μωμ
Το Age of Aquarius των Revolution Renaissance, το When the lights are down των Kamelot, το Wasted sunsets των Deep Purple και το End of the rope των Draconian. Κι ίσως στην εξομολόγηση του Φάουστο να αρέσει η παρέα του Child in time και ο Στένσιλ να μουρμουρίζει το παλιό κομμάτι των Jethro Tull, που έλεγε είμαι πολύ μεγάλος για να ροκάρω, αλλά πολύ μικρός για να πεθάνω.
Και τώρα άνοιξε την πόρτα: να ‘χεις μια ενδιαφέρουσα βόλτα!
Και να θυμάσαι η Αναζήτηση δεν είναι μόνο ένας ορισμός, είναι ένας οιωνός πως η ζωή θέλει ψάξιμο και χάσιμο και λάθη και χαλάρωση και φούρια, αλλά όχι στάσεις.

masterpiece

Pynchon takes his readers on a wild ride. We attend a party on an abandoned cruise ship. We witness an assassination in Cairo. We hunt alligators in the sewers beneath New York City. We time-and-space travel to 1904 Namibia to witness the Herero Revolt and ensuing genocide. Florence, Italy to watch an ill-conceived attempt at stealing Botticelli's Birth of Venus. We study atmospheric radio disturbances with a crossdressing German lieutenant. The list goes on...

The characters are as diverse as the book's settings. I counted more than 160 of them, all with truly bizarre names. There are our protagonists (as far as this book has any protagonists; it's really an ensemble performance), Benny Profane and Herbert Stencil. Then there's Pig Bodine, Pappy Hod, Fergus Mixolydian, Fausto Maijstral, Father Avalanche, etc.

And thematically, V. is puzzle. It's hard to pin down what this book is really about. There's a lot about yo-yoing, which is a drifter's kind of lifestyle. (Dude, I just spent the year after I graduated college just yo-yoing up and down the coast, bra.) There's a lot about fathers and sons. If there's one major plotline in the book, it's Stencil's search for the mysterious woman V., who is somehow connected to his father, and it's kind of unclear if she's even a woman; perhaps she's a place or just an idea. There's the idea that all the major world events are connected in a heinous plot born out of some deviant mind. And there's that creeping dread of the inanimate that shows up from time to time.

So it seems like my point with this review would be to say that this is a big, complex, difficult book. But what I'd actually like to say is that this is a fun, lovable book that will grab you and won't let you go until you've read every word. Sure, you have to be the type of person who doesn't mind a challenge to fully enjoy it, but if you are that type, if you like David Foster Wallace or William Gaddis (there is a straight line drawn from Gaddis to Pynchon and from Pynchon to Wallace), then this could very easily be your next obsession.


Note: When you read this, it's imperative to keep a written character list. Minor characters often reappear later to assert themselves as major characters and it would behoove you not to forget them. Enclosed in this spoiler is my dramatis personae if you'd like to take a look.
Benny Profane: discharged from the Navy, been working as road laborer for a year and a half and traveling, Catholic father, Jewish mother, born in 1932

Beatrice: barmaid, sweetheart of Benny's Navy ship, USS Scaffold

Beatrice Buffo: owner of the Sailor's Grave, calls all her barmaids Beatrice

Ploy: engine man on the minesweeper Impulsive, always picking fights, tried to kill himself after the Navy took all his teeth out, sharpened his new dentures and and bit Beatrice's butt

Dewey Gland: Ploy's friend, sings Benny a song for being a PFC (Poor Forlorn Civilian)

Pig Bodine: a "miasma of evil", AWOL from the Scaffold, saves Winsome from jumping out the window to kill himself, was saved from radar radiation by Profane

Morris Teflon: switchman at the coal piers, takes pornographic photos and sells them to sailors, let's Benny and Pig and Paola and Dewey stay at his apartment

Rachel Owlglass: her Daddy gave her an MG and she drove it recklessly, Profane met her when she hit him with it; works as an interviewer/personnel girl at a downtown employment agency, somehow also interviewed Profane for a job without recognizing each other

Da Conho: Benny's chief at Schlozhauer's Trocadero, a crazy Zionist, had a machine gun he kept at the restaurant

Duke Wedge: Benny's bunk mate, tried to sleep with Rachel but she wouldn't do it

Patsy Pagano: got hit in his stomach by an SP's nightstick at the New Year's Eve party

Tolito, Jose, and Kook: Puerto Rican kids who woke Benny up on the subway to dance for money

Angel: Kook's brother, hunts alligators

Josefina/Fina Mendoza: Kook's sister, invites Benny to come home with her, works for Winsome, loved by the Playboys gang, tried to give her virginity to Benny

Mr. & Mrs. Mendoza: Angel's and Fina's parents

Geronimo: Angel's friend

Mr. Zeitsuss: Geronimo's Angels' boss at the alligator hu

Shale Schoenmaker: plastic surgeon, knows something about V but denies it, was an airplane mechanic during WW1, inspired to become a plastic surgeon when his hero fighter pilot Evan Godolphin becomes disfigured, impregnates Esther

Irving: Schoenmaker's assistant and mistress, he gave her a new nose and freckles

Trench: his other assistant, a juvenile delinquent

Esther Harvitz: is in debt to Schoenmaker for plastic surgery, Rachel's roommate, gets pregnant with Schoenmaker's baby, Winsome says she "pays to get the body she was born with altered and then falls deeply in love with the man who mutilated her" and she sees nothing wrong with it

Slab: of the Raoul-Slab-Melvin triumvirate, Rachel's lover, obsessively paints cheese danishes, tries to convince Esther to get an abortion, Winsome calls him a "painter, whose eyes are open, has technical skill and if you will 'soul', but is committed to cheese danishes"

Paola Maijstral: Rachel's roommate, was a barmaid, Benny got her and Rachel connected, separated from her husband, grew up in a sewer in Malta

Pappy Hod: her husband, in Valletta with Fat Clyde

Herbert Stencil: born in 1901, raised motherless, seeking a woman named V he found mentioned in his father's journals, possibly his mother, worked as a spy during WW2

Sidney Stencil: his father, never talked about his wife, died in 1919 during the June Disturbances in Malta, questioned the Gaucho in Florence, was searching for Hugh Godolphin when he met Victoria, who came to the consulate to tell them about Hugh and Vheissu

Margravine di Chiave Lowenstein: left by Stencil in 1946 so that he could seek V

Hugh Bongo-Shaftsbury: former resident of Stencil's apartment, son of an Egyptologist Sidney Stencil knew (initials are BS: intentional?), shows up in a Horus costume to Victoria after the Austrian consul party

Chiclitz the munitions king and Eigenvalue the physician: Stencil wants to talk to them about V

Fergus Mixolydian: an Irish Armenian Jew, the "laziest living being in Nueva York", Winsome says he "takes money from a Foundation named after a man who spent millions trying to prove thirteen rabbis rule the world" and he sees nothing wrong with it

Raoul: writes for television, Winsome says he "can produce drama devious enough to slip by any sponsor's roadblock and still tell the staring fans what's wrong with them and what they're watching, but he's happy with westerns and detective stories"

Melvin: plays liberal folk songs on guitar, Winsome says "Melvin the folk-singer has no talent. Ironically he does more social commenting than the rest of the Crew put together. He accomplishes nothing."

Debby Sensay: groupie of the Whole Sick Crew

Brad: a fraternity boy, meets Esther at the WSC party

McClintic Sphere: saxophonist at the V-Note

P. Aïeul: cafe waiter and amateur libertine in Alexandria

Eric Bongo-Shaftsbury: father of the apartment owner, killed Porpentine

Porpentine: one of Sidney Stencil's colleagues, killed by Eric Bongo-Shaftsbury, had a bad sunburn that looked like leprosy

Mr. Goodfellow: Porpentine's partner, in love with Victoria, gets in a fight with the Arab on the train

Victoria Wren: on a trip with her father in Alexandria, Goodfellow is trying to seduce her away from Bongo-Shaftsbury, became estranged from her father when he discovered her affair with Goodfellow

Sir Alastair Wren: Victoria's widowed father

Mildred Wren: Victoria's younger sister

Evelyn: Victoria's Australian uncle

Yusef: an anarchist, working at the Austrian consulate

Tewfik: a young assassin Yusef knew, the only person he could think of who had faster reflexes than

Meknes: leader of the kitchen force at the Austrian consulate

Count Khevenhüller-Metsch: the Austrian consul, Porpentine's alter ego

M. de Villiers: the Russian consul, Goodfellow's alter ego

Maxwell Rowley-Bugge: aka Ralph MacBurgess, likes young girls, moved to Alexandria after he was busted with a ten year old

Alice: the ten year old girl who got Max/Ralph busted

Lepsius: German with blue glasses, meets Porpentine, Goodfellow, and Victoria in the Fink restaurant in Alexandria, has recently come from Brindisi, says he will see them again in Cairo

Waldetar: a Portugese train conductor on the Alexandria-Cairo express

Nita: his pregnant wife

Manoel, Antonia, Maria: his children

Gebrail: a poor man in Cairo, his farm was overtaken by desert, now a carriage driver, drove Porpentine and Goodfellow around (or maybe Portpentine and Bongo-Shaftsbury?)

Girgis: carnival clown in Cairo by day, burglar by night, witnesses Porpentine fall out of a window while trying to spy on Goodfellow and Victoria

Hanne Echerze: waitress at the German bierhalle in Cairo, Lepsius's lover, although she doesn't love him anymore

Boeblich: owner of the German bierhalle

Varkumian: pimp, had a conversation with Porpentine at the bierhalle

Evan Godolphin: a pilot during WW2, Schoenmaker's hero, was disfigured when he was shot in the face while in the air (the inspiration for Schoenmaker's profession)

Captain Hugh Godolphin: his father, a professional adventurer, meets Victoria in Florence and tells her about his travels to Vheissu, was also in Africa and got stuck at the Siege Party when he was trying to gather a crew for a South Pole expedition

Pike-Leeming: went with Hugh to Vheissu, now "incurable and insensate in a home in Wales"

Halidom: a surgeon, gave Evan Godolphin an ivory nose, silver cheekbone, and a parafin and celluloid chin (allografts)

Zeitsuss: the alligator sewer boss

VA "Brushhook" Spugo: 85 years old, keeps track of alligator sightings on a map

Dolores, Pilar: friends of Angel and Geronimo

Delgado: vibes player in the band Angel, Benny and Fina see, is getting married tomorrow

Bung: the alligator hunter foreman

Father Fairing: believed humans would die and rats would take over, so he converted all the rats in the sewer to Catholocism, his favorite rat was named Victoria (second incarnation of V)

Manfred Katz: Zeitsuss's predecessor

Roony Winsome: executive for Outlandish Records, smokes "string" (a kind of tobacco), tries to commit suicide but Pig delays him until the cops are able to catch him in a net when he jumps out the window and then is taken to Bellevue

Mafia: his wife, a novelist with a cult following, Winsome says she "is smart enough to create a world but too stupid not to live in it. Finding the real world never jibing with her fancy she spends all kinds of energy - sexual, emotional - trying to make it conform, never succeeding."

Charisma: his friend

Fu: other friend

Lucille: 14 year old girl Benny met out partying with Angel and wants to screw

Dudley Eigenvalue: dentist, does work for the Whole Sick Crew for free, anticipating that they will be powerful in the future

Clayton "Bloody" Chiclitz: of Yoyodyne, a defense contractor

Signor Mantissa: depressed Italian, trying to steal Botticelli's Birth of Venus from a museum by hiding it in a tree, friend of Hugh Godolphin

Cesare: his friend, pretends to be a steamboat

The Gaucho: helping Mantissa, wears a wideawake hat, Venezuelan revolutionary who formed the Figli di Machiavelli

Cuernacabrón: the Gaucho's lieutenant

Gadrulfi: a florist, Mantissa's Judas tree provider, the English Foreign Office thinks it's an alias for Evan Godolphin

Salazar: Venezuelan Vise-Consul in Florence

Ratón: Salazar's chief

Angelo: one of the Gaucho's captors

Major Percy Chapman: from the English Foreign Office, captured the Gaucho in Florence to interrogate him about Vheissu

Demivolt: Sidney Stencil's coworker at the foreign office, offered him the chance to talk to Victoria but he said no

Covess: Sidney's chum in diplomatic school who went rogue and tried to recruit locals to invade France

Moffit: takes orders from Sidney at the Foreign Office in Florence

Ferrante: Italian neo-Machievellian secret policeman, assigned to the "Venezuelan problem"

Vogt: Austrian who runs the secret police headquarters

Gascoigne: black man who works for Vogt

Borracho: night watchman at the Figli di Machiavelli's garrison

Tito: makes a living selling dirty photos to soldiers

Oley Bergomask: works at Anthroresearch Associates, Rachel tells Benny he might hire him as night watchman, studying radiation absorption in humans

Knoop: comm officer on the Scaffold, Pig's partner in crime in transmitting dirty stories over the teletype machine, also busted Pig for stealing radio parts

Potamós: Scaffold cook

Kurt Mondaugen: engineer at Peenemunde, told Stencil the story of chapter 9, in 1922 was in Africa studying atmospheric radio disturbances, got stuck at a "Siege Party" for 2.5 months during a rebellion, where he meets Vera Meroving (V), thinks that the sferics are a code that he tries to break

H. Barkhausen: first heard the radio disturbances in WWI

Foppl: farmer who throws parties that Mondaugen attends, volunteers to let all the Germans stay at his house while the rebellion goes on, calls it the "Siege Party", everyone stays for 2.5 months

Willemstad van Wijk: leader in the African community

Abraham Morris: leading a rebellion, destroyed Mondaugen's antennae

Jacobus Christian, Tim Beukes: Morris's followers

Sergeant van Niekerk: insulted Abraham Morris, incidentally starting the rebellion

Vera Meroving: another instance of V, from Munich, met Mondaugen at the Siege Party, has an artificial eye with a watch in it, talked about Vheissu with Godolphin, poses as the Bad Priest in Malta, see below

Lieutenant Weissmann: Vera's "companion", accuses Mondaugen of being a traitor because he thinks the sferics are a code from the enemy, crossdresses

Hedwig Vogelsang: a sixteen year old singer/dancer at the Siege Party, Mondaugen's crush

Andreas: a rebel that Foppl was keeping in his basement and torturing

Schwach, Fleische: Mondaugen's comrades in his dreams of 1904

Sarah: African woman that Mondaugen rapes and keeps prisoner in his house in his 1904 dream, she drowned after trying to escape

Matilda Winthrop: runs a whorehouse in Harlem where Sphere goes to meet Ruby

Ruby: Sphere's whore, wants to visit her ailing father far away

Sylvia: another whore there

Murray Sable: race car driver

Fausto Maijstral: Paola's father, wrote the chapter with his confessions, studied to be a priest but had to give it up when Elena had Paola, revealed to be Stencil Sr.'s son

Elena Xemxi: Fausto's wife, Paola's mother, died in a bombing

Maratt: Fausto's school chum, studied politics

Dnubietna: Fausto's school chum, studied engineering

Father Avalanche: persuaded Elena to return to Fausto after she went to Dnubietna

The Bad Priest: Avalanche's opposite, preaches to the children, Vera in disguise, is trapped by a beam during a bombing and all the children steal her false eye, false feet, a gemstone belly button ring, Fausto let her die there

Carla Maijstral: Fausto's mother

Saturno Aghtina: lived in the sewers in Malta with his wife, Elena and Paola

Tifkira: Maltese merchant who hoards wine, Fausto and Dnubietna drank some of it together while bombs fell

Patrolman Joneš, Officer Ten Eyck: arrest Mafia, Charisma, and Fu while they're playing Musical Blankets for disturbing the peace (but also maybe because of something Winsome said while talking to a doctor in Bellevue)

Hiroshima: a radioman on board the Scaffold, helped Pig steal radio parts to sell

C. Osric Lych: commander on the Scaffold, gave Pig a break when he got caught stealing the radio parts

Groomsman: "crab-ridden", another of Lych's sailors saved from dishonorable discharge

Hanky, Panky: the girls that Groomsman and Pig visited on days off

Gino Profane: Benny's father

Neil: Profane and Stencil witness him beating up a plainclothes cop who was trying to catch him soliciting homosexual sex

Melanie l'Heuremaudit: in 1913 France, fifteen years old, ran away from boarding school in Belgium, was molested as a child by her father, her mother is off touring Austria-Hungary, works in M. Itague's theatre company, Mlle. Jarretiere is her stage name, is the submissive in an affair with "V. in love", died during a performance when she was impaled by a pole; she was supposed to wear a chastity belt that would have protected her

M. Itague: owns a theatre company

Satin: Russian choreographer

Porcepic: Russian composer, a fictionalized Stravinsky

Gerfaut: playwright

Kholsky: "a huge and homicidal tailor", leader of a group of Russian expatriate socialists

"V. in love": 33 years old, a "sculptress acolyte from Vaugirard", another instance V., her name is unknown, has an affair with Melanie, she is the dominant one

Sgherraccio: a "mad Irredentist", ran off with V. after Melanie died

Flip, Flop: girls Profane and Pig party with in DC

Iago Saperstein: found Flip and Profane sleeping on the steps of a Masonic temple, invite them to a party

Howie Surd: drunken yeoman, American sailorp

Fat Clyde/Harvey: super skinny, American sailor, goes out on liberty with Pappy Hod in Valletta

Tiger Youngblood: "spud coxswain"

Lazar: "the deck ape"

Teledu: tries to pee out the bus window

Leman: "red-headed water king", bad drunk

Tourneur: ship's barber, kept Leman from throwing a rock through a window

Elisa: barmaid, Paola's friend

Johnny Cantango: Scaffold's damage control assistant, feels responsible for messing up the propeller

Pinguez: steward's mate striker, got sick at a bar

Falange: snipe, Pinguez's buddy

Baby Face: another sailor

Antoine Zippo, Nasty Chobb: took over the bandstand at the Union Jack bar

Sam Mannaro: corpsman striker

Dahoud: SP along with Leroy

Leroy Tongue: midget storekeeper, gets on Dahoud's shoulders and hits people with a nightstick

Cassar: pawnbroker in Malta, pointed Stencil to a girl with the glass eye with the clock inside, who claimed she threw it into the sea

Aquilina: tells Stencil about Mme. Viola

Mme. Viola: hypnotist who bought the glass eye in 1944, Stencil leaves Valletta to find her

Brenda Wigglesworth: American traveler Profane meets after Paola and Stencil leave him

Veronica Manganese: Hiding V. in Malta

reading pynchon is like viewing a kaleidoscope through a piece of gauze - you’re never entirely sure you can see clearly what’s going on but from what you can deduce it’s riotous and unpredictable and somehow incandescent in its obscurity. only my second work of his and it is not at all going to be the last

The search for the identity of V is the primary question in this masterwork from Pynchon. It is funny and tragic and crazy and totally Pynchon. I honestly cannot remember everything this book - it does not stick in my memory as much as Mason&Dixon, Gravity's Rainbow or Against the Day. I mean, I loved the pleasure of reading it. But months later, I remember just the story of the genocide in Africa and some other snapshots but overall the image remains vague. Perhaps I read too much Pynchon in too short a time? I definitely will need to reread this one again.

Fino's Pynchon Reviews:
n  n: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
n  n: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
n  n: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
n  n: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
n  n: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
n  n: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
n  n: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
n  n: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...
n  n: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

5* không phải vì nó là một kiệt tác gần với sự hoàn hảo như Anh em nhà Karamazov của Dostoevski hay Lolita của Nabokov (xin lỗi bác Cốp vì sự đặt cạnh này ;))- bởi vì V. có những đoạn đọc như tra tấn như Lời xưng tội của Fausto hay như việc Pynchon mềm tay quá mức khi viết về tình yêu (trừ tình yêu của V.) hoặc sư lan man tham lam quá độ ở nhiều chỗ hoặc đơn giản là nhiều chỗ mình không hiểu để đánh giá nó là 1* hay 5*- mà bởi vì ở V. có quá nhiều khoảnh khắc xứng đáng 5*

Khi đọc có lúc liên tưởng tới Conan. Tức là một thanh niên 26 tuổi có kiến thức - mà dựa vào những phần mình hiểu thì cho thấy - sâu sắc về quá nhiều lĩnh vực như chính trị, tôn giáo, nghệ thuật, triết học, khoa học, y tế, tâm lý, nhân sinh quan, địa lý... và nhiều cái nhỏ tí nữa. Đây giống như một tác phẩm cuối đời hơn là đầu đời. Không hiểu loại người nào viết ra cuốn sách này? Phải là người cả ngày ngồi trong phòng nghiên cứu đồng thời là người cả ngày xông pha thực tế khắp quả đất.

Thú thật là có khoảng 20% không hiểu khi đọc V.. Một phần vì khác biệt địa giới văn hóa, một phần vì đơn thuần là chả hiểu sao ông í tự dưng chêm cái đấy vào chỗ đấy. Chắc chắn phải ngồi đọc nhâm nhi lại một số đoạn không hiểu và có thể là đọc thêm bình để hiểu hơn.

Kết thúc thì thấy V. có phần giống Saleem của Salman Rushdie. Chi tiết thì đã nói ở phần kết, tức là như nữ thần Mara. Mà nữ thần thì luôn là hình ảnh thêu dệt từ hiện thực nói chung và khát vọng tương lai. Dạo này không hiểu do tư tưởng mình thay đổi hay thật sự do những tình cờ mà liên tục gặp những hình tượng lưỡng tính trong mọi sự như Abraxas. Mà có khi nó là xu thế, hay bản chất vũ trụ, tức là sự cân bằng bây giờ không thiết lập trên dữ liệu số lớn nữa, mà trong mỗi cá nhân.

Còn cơ bản, chủ đề của V. -theo cảm nhận bao trùm của mình của mình sau khi đọc xong - không phải là tìm kiếm nhân dạng V., cũng không phải phản chiến, mà là một dạng vô tri, đời nhẹ khôn kham như Kundera vậy. Con người, xã hội, đều chỉ hoàn hảo nhất ở trạng thái vũ trụ vốn sinh ra cho nó. Nguyên thủy, hãy tôn vinh nguyên thủy.

Với những bạn nào thấy V. quá khó đọc thì mình xin chia sẻ 1 típ là hãy note toàn bộ tên các nhân vật mà bạn gặp, nhớ các mốc thời gian và cẩn thận đừng để nhầm giữa Stencil bố và con.

Hiu hiu nghe đồn V. chỉ thuộc dạng 3* của Pynchon. Mong được đọc tiếp hiu hiu. Và ngoài ra thì Tao Đàn bị ngợp hay sao mà edit cuốn này sai lỗi chính tả mấy chỗ và nhiều chỗ đọc bản E còn dễ hơn V :-ss

Nutshell: orthographic mystery spins out of control as narrative ponderously stencils over trifling profanities.

Quite an achievement. Probably should’ve read this prior to reading Underworld, Dissident Gardens, or Bleeding Edge--all New York stories, working out of the same imaginary as Selby’s Last Exit to Brooklyn. The first chapter of V is the closest to Selby, and it’s almost unreadable. After that, it calms down and is readily digestible in large pieces.

Ian Vance is correct that the marxist rat is awesome (123 ff.). First chapter regarding protagonist spy Stencil is very impressive, also--involving the perspectives of eight others into whose ambit the master spy moves. One of the best things that I’ve ever read, though, is the scene wherein one character gets a nose job (104-12), which is told with fine attention to detail of the clinical language of the physician, but also mixes in bizarre sexual commentary from the physician’s assistant during the procedure, with reference to the tools entering patient‘s face (she remains aware under local anesthetic!): “Stick it in…pull it out…stick it in…ooh that was good” (108)--and, eventually, the physician starts mingling German into his speech, like in Dr. Strangelove (“Now ve shorten das septum, ja” (111)), which kinda hammers home the nastiness of elective cosmetic surgeries. (Patient ends up screwing the doctor, incidentally.) Novel contains several great set pieces in the Stencil sections: intrigues in 1899 Florence, then 1922 Namibia (lotsa Germans excited about Mussolini, killing natives in preparation for WW2, apparently), then Paris 1913, then Malta during the second world war.

Central, eponymous mystery is disclosed early: “His journals, his unofficial log of an agent’s career. Under ‘Florence, April, 1899’ is a sentence, young Stencil has memorized it: ‘There is more behind and inside V. than any of us had suspected. Not who, but what: what is she. God grant that I may never be called upon to write the answer, either here or in any official report’” (49). The Florence 1899 episode is laid out later when Stencil is at therapy with his psychodontist, and involves a mission to:

"a place called Vheissu, [...] on camel-back over a vast tundra, past the dolmens and temples of dead cities; finally to the banks of a broad river which never sees the sun, so thickly roofed is it with foliage. The river is traveled in long teak boats which are carved like dragons and paddled by brown men whose language is unknown to all but themselves. In eight days’ time there is a portage over a neck of treacherous swampland to a green lake, and across the lake rise the first foothills of the mountains which ring Vheissu. Native guides will only go a short distance into these mountains. Soon they will turn back, pointing out the way."  

(179). Revealed that the clouds, “they are Vheissu, its raiment, perhaps its skin,” but “beneath?” Answered: “I wondered about the soul of the place. If it had a soul. Because their music, poetry, laws and ceremonies come no closer. They are skin too” (181). Rather, “dreams are not, not closer to the waking world” in Vheissu, but “they do seem more real” (181-82) (cue baudrillardism).

Easy then, at this early point of the novel that V. may well be Vheissu, a place rather than a person, a place similar to many others in the British Empire (180). That was my initial reading, considerably complicated as the text spun out.

Nevertheless, same chapter describes a caper to steal a painting of Venus, enacted by one of the few survivors of elder Stencil’s Vheissu mission. So: V. as the Venus? Or is it Victoria Wren, who re-appears in this instantiation? No idea. Not sure I really want to know. Other chapters note a Vera, Viola, the city of Valletta, Veronica (a sewer rat, of all things), Vesuvius, the V-2. It’s a mess.

More interesting: the novel is structured around the distinction animate/inanimate, and I suspect that a close neo-formalist reading will bear out the structuration. The binary shows up repeatedly, both expressly and implicitly:

Pig Bodine: “in times of crisis he preferred to sit in as a voyeur” (9) (dude likes to hit on women with “What do you think of Sartre‘s thesis that we are all impersonating an identity?” (137));

Profane’s desire to piss out the sun is rooted in the fact that “inanimate objects could do what they wanted. Not what they wanted because things do not want; only men. But things do what they do” (19-20);

Profane’s search “for something too to make the fact of his own disassembly plausible as that of any machine” (35);

Servile types are considered “as much a feature of the topography as the other automata” (69-70);

Bongo-Shaftsbury as a “mechanical doll” (80-81);

The physician’s favoring of “allograft: the introduction of inert substances into the living face” (102); physician is expressly in “alignment with the inanimate“ (103);

Godolphin carps that he “was nearly killed in something that could not have been an accident, a caprice of the inanimate world” (207);

Profane muses that “anybody who worked for inanimate money so he could buy more inanimate objects was out of his head. Inanimate money was to get animate warmth, dead fingernails in the living shoulderblades, quick cries against the pillow, tangled hair, lidded eyes, twisted loins” (230);

“Community may have been the only solution possible against such an assertion of the Inanimate” (296);

Regarding voyeurism: “At least he was to experience a for him rare Achphenomenon: the discovery that his voyeurism had been determined purely by events seen, and not by any deliberate choice, or pre-existing set of personal psychic needs” (301);

Dude who paints only cheese danishes explains his “revolt against Catatonic Expressionism” as “The beauty is that it works like a machine yet is animate. The partridge eats pears off the tree, and his droppings in turn nourish the tree” (307);

Profane understands what I mean: “In the eighteenth century it was often convenient to regard man as a clockwork automaton. In the nineteenth century, with Newtonian physics pretty well assimilated and a lot of work in thermodynamics going on, man was looked on more as a heat-engine, about 40-percent efficient. Now in the twentieth century, with nuclear and subatomic physics a going thing, man had become something which absorbs x-rays, gamma rays, and neutrons” (310). Profane feels a kinship with crash test dummies, especially one which is “the first inanimate schlemihl he’d ever encountered” (id.);

Profane is of course dead wrong, as he himself is a schlemihl from page one of the novel, and admits that he is the opposite of the “master of the inanimate,” is rather a “schlemihl, that was hardly a man: somebody who lies back and takes it from objects, like any passive woman [!]” (314);

Great bit wherein a series of accidents are catalogued as “the world started to run more and more afoul of the inanimate” (316);

Maijstral’s confession (very well done, this) complains that he “Was meant only to live at the threshold of consciousness, only exist as a hardly animate lump of flesh, an automaton” (339) (much relevant in the confession). The confession advises that it “will limit the inevitable annotating to this request. Observe the predominance of human attributes applied to the inanimate”--which is a key instruction in the reading of this novel, asking the reader to turn back to page one and mark out each and every prosopopeia (I haven’t done this.);

We find that the “Bad Priest” (another reiteration of V.) is disassembled (381-82) piece by inanimate piece, like the fable of the golden screw (34) and Profane’s desire to be disassembled, supra;

And so on, proliferating to the end, including theatrical automata and a proto-fascist complaining about decadence in pre-WWI Paris, how “we foist off the humanity we have on inanimate objects and abstract theories” (450).

We see, then, that the first appearance of V., supra, is marked out with passive verbs and relative pronouns, a dearth to be filled by something else (viz. readers): what is she, not who; what is behind or inside her. (stick it in…pull it out…oh that‘s good). V. is primarily something therefore that lacks grammatical animation. We know that animate/inanimate is grammatical in the novel because one character laments that “he had the Saxon habit of attaching diminutive endings to nouns, animate or inanimate” (246).

Just to prove that all of those horrible Ayn Rand books that I’ve been reading aren’t a complete waste: one character is noted to be an aspiring novelist--“All her characters fell into disturbingly predictable racial alignment. The sympathetic--those godlike, inexhaustible sex athletes she used for heroes and heroines were all tall, strong, white though often robustly tanned, Anglo-Saxon, Teutonic, and/or Scandinavian” (132). Pretty good description of randian output and theory.

Anyway, lotsa inventiveness, humor, great turns of phrase, good politics, &c. Some kinda analysis of tourism, perhaps placing it in dialectic with espionage or exploration or surveying, which show up repeatedly. Hard to say. Forms a nexus with the animate/inanimate stuff, late: “This is a curious country, populated only by a breed called ‘tourists.’ Its landscape is one inanimate monuments” &c. (454). A similar pre-occupation with surface/depths, as in Bleeding Edge. Much more going on here than my little review lets on.

Recommended for those with some intention of pissing on the sun to put it out for good, readers who adhere to Heroic Love (i.e., screwing five or six times a night, every night, with a great many athletic, half-sadistic wrestling holds thrown in), and persons with a complex system of pressure transducers located in a marvelous vagina of polyethylene.

From this book I learned that:

a) Thomas Pynchon may be the smartest man alive.
b) Pynchon's vocabulary is one of the most extensive I've ever come across.
c) Reading Pynchon is tedious and often unpleasant.

Even with the companion and a book discussion group, reading this novel was like wading through a bog. Every time I grasped the plot, I'd lose track of Pynchon's message, and every time I caught a glimpse of the message, I lost the plot.

No wonder the man's a recluse. Talking to him must be like spending an afternoon with Stephen Hawking.

Thomas Pynchon has written some of the best pieces of English fiction that I've ever read. He projected worlds in Against the Day and in Mason & Dixon that were amazing, magical, utterly enthralling. The world he tries to project in V., however, went over my head.

The writing feels upolished, unrefined, not really the Pynchon I've grown used to. The sub-plots and digressions, which are rambling to an extreme degree even for Pynchon's standards, are less-than-stellar most of the time. Except for some funny moments -- some sewer crocodile hunting in New York, and a somewhat unusual bus ride towards the end of the book, to mention two of few -- there happens almost nothing here that is noteworthy, nothing, to my mind, that is particularly memorable. There are glimpses here and there of what Pynchon is capable of, but for the most part, this book is simply not any fun.

The themes so present in, say, Against the Day are here too to some degree, but as with the writing, the themes' presentation feels unrefined. You know, the duality thing, change (universal and political), the nature of knowledge and, well, everything, the opposites: like it says on the back of the book, one man "looking for something he has lost, the other with nothing much to lose." There are Wittgenstein references and hints of something philosophical under the surface, but it's impossible to garner the strength (or will, if you will) to really care about all that and to dive deeper into it when the book is generally so boring. A massive disappointment.

I propose that the titular "V." is neither a person nor a place but a preposition.

What, really, is more personal than a first novel? It's that all-or-nothing, balls-to-the-wall debut effort that can either send a fledgling writer plummeting to dream-shattering depths with an effort that falls flat for any number of reasons or it can be the inaugural celebration all starry-eyed young scribes dare to hope for, that which heralds a staggering new talent to a canon populated by the many great wordslingers who've scribbled their way to well-deserved immortality. (For argument's sake, we'll work under the assumption that those flimsy flavor-of-the-month bestsellers that are so in vogue for their seemingly eternal 15 minutes will, in time, be forgotten and written off as yet another regrettable mistake born of groupthink's lapse in judgment while these truly remarkable feats of literature persist through the ages.)

If one is to write what one knows, how daunting must it be to know so much about such a wide range of complicated topics -- minute historical details of a time one either never experienced or was simply too young to fully digest, regardless of youthful precociousness; engineering equations requiring mathematical acrobatics and a more than adequate grasp on physics; an insider's take on the naval experience; an innate understanding of how to perfectly mix high-minded concepts and lowbrow humor with a dash of poetic lyric -- and attempt to whittle it all down into a tome that won't crush potential readers under the weight of both the volume itself and the awe-inspiring ideas roiling within?

The little we do know about literature's most elusive enigma points to pieces of Pynchon being flung along the narrative's parade route like confetti, adding flashes of biographical color to his intricately structured and beautifully written first novel that pits the animate against the inanimate and the internal self against the external veneer (and has the best-ever bonus of an Ayn Rand stand-in reduced to baby-talk in the presence of a pwecious widdle kittums-cat?). Aside from what can only be thinly veiled allusions to his Cornell days with Richard Fariña and their cult of Warlock -- regarding the Generation of '37: "And we did like to use Elizabethan phrases in our speech"; "A farewell celebration for Maratt on the eve of his marriage"; "Dnubietna leapt up on the table, upsetting glasses, knocking the bottle to the floor, screaming "Go to, caitiff!" It became the cant phrase for our "set": go to."; "The pre-war University years were probably as happy as he described, and the conservation as "good."", to say nothing of the nod to a novel called Existential Sheriff -- the internal conflicts of the writer seem to be scattered throughout V. like a breadcrumb trail back to the source himself.

Because Pynchon has be one conflicted dude. To be a notoriously private man juggling such derision for the spotlight with the compulsion to write for unseen but rabid fans, to churn out maddeningly, densely obscure works that are nevertheless guaranteed to meet both critical and commercial success (and increase sales of Excedrin in the following months), to posses such finely tuned right and left brains that he can be considered nothing less than an engineer-poet in his own right, to walk such a fine line between historical fictions and fictional histories -- is it any wonder that a man so in touch with dueling perspectives would build his first novel on the foundation of This n  v.n That?

23rd book of 2024.

This book was my companion last week as I was in Malta with my brother. We walked the usual 20,000+ steps a day when travelling, had no dinners and instead opted for liquid dinners (big lunch at 3pm, then in the evenings drink local Cisk beer), and woke every morning to the Basilica view our fairly large apartment gave us.

V is far easier to read than the other Pynchon's I've read, save perhaps Vineland. Of course, Gravity's Rainbow remains the most challenging (but at times, the most rewarding). Pynchon's writing here is sometimes exceptional, and he wrote this aged 26. I actually found the Whole Sick Crew and the modern bits a bit gratuitous; I wonder how much is autobiographical or just Pynchon enjoying writing about yo-yoing and getting drunk. The historical bits were more interesting to me, particularly Mondaugen's long story in chapter 9 (which I read almost entirely in Malta International Airport). One of the standouts, as many have already said though, has to be Profane hunting alligators in the sewers and the bit with the priest and the rats. But generally, the same old problems I have with Pynchon persist: there's too much going on, loose threads, too many characters, it's difficult to care about anyone or anything; it is enjoyable at times but a lot of the time, I just felt like he was waffling, even showing off. Alan recently sent me something about Pynchon from James Wood, which I won't quote in its entirety but,
n  

There are pleasure to be had from these amiable, peopled canvases [e.g. Pynchon's novels], and there are passages of great beauty, but, as in farce, the cost to final seriousness is considerable: everyone is ultimately protected from real menace because no one really exists.

n
And I think I agree with that; as much as I start to enjoy a passage or a chapter of Pynchon, by the end, everything is a wash of silliness, fart jokes, puns and cardboard characters with no true menace or heart. Or he goes the other way, like in Vineland, and made me sick with the heart. Perhaps I'm impossible to please.

Benny Profane has nothing to lose. Herbert Stencil has someone or something to find (V.). This is the story of how they get on. Maybe.

Earlier this year, I re-read A Visit from the Goon Squad. I was struck on this re-read of V. by the similarity in structure/approach in these two novels. Both could be considered as a series of inter-linked short stories that jump around in time and gradually fit together to form an overall story. Of course, being Pynchon, this one is a bit more complicated than that and spreads its net much wider in terms of ideas, philosophies, science, cultural references and, yes, jokes.

I seriously believe that people who "get lost" in Pynchon novels are probably trying too hard. Or maybe that’s just my way out. Yes, the writing is dense and complicated. Yes, the cultural references are too many and too widespread for normal people to cope with all of them. But I am not sure that's the point. If you read and re-read passages in an effort to fully understand them, you are forgetting that often the explanation will not come for another 50 pages! If you try to make the chapters flow into a consistent narrative and plot, you are forgetting that in most Pynchon books the plot gets cut up into little pieces and then re-assembled in a seemingly random order. The best approach is, I think, to read and keep reading without worrying too much about the understanding: it will either come or it won’t and I’m not sure it matters which.

Much has been written about the V that is apparent in the structure of this book as Profane's and Stencil's stories gradually converge and then meet. It's a satisfying thought, but it does neglect the fact that their paths cross several times as the book progresses. Don't forget that, at one point Profane takes a pot-shot at what he thinks is an alligator in the New York sewers and the next thing we know is that Stencil is picking shot pellets out of his backside. For example.

But it is true that Profane and Stencil end up together as the story draws to a close. I’m confident that I missed a lot as I read this. But I also enjoyed the whole reading experience. I’m not that hung up about “understanding” Pynchon: I simply enjoy the writing and let the story flow - what sticks, sticks and what doesn’t doesn’t. That’s fine by me.

You either love or hate Pynchon. I’m not sure there’s a middle ground, a “take him or leave him” approach. I am firmly in the former camp: I’ve read all of his novels and I am working my way through them again (very slowly). This, his first novel, is a good indication of things to come. Some of his novels are more accessible. Some less. Some have more plot. Some less. It is staggering to think that this book could come from a 26-year-old.