This story reminded me of works such as Robert Shea's and Robert Anton Wilson's "Illuminatus Trilogy" released in 1975 and Umberto Eco's "Foucault's Pendulum" released in 1988. This is a book written by an American writer (little is known about Pynchon's identity) , released in 1966, telling the weird story of a young married woman, Oedipa (or Oed) Maas, who, quite unexpectedly, becomes the executor of the late Pierce Inverarity's will .

Her seemingly tranquil and conventional life turns upside down as she has to solve a mysterious and extremely complicated case. The author manages to fit into his work a cryptic miniature of this world, building a modern maze of faces, events and situations that seem to have the coherence of an electronic circuit board, the duality of a computer, and the transcendence of a secular religious phenomenon.

Αυτό το βιβλίο δεν είχα πρόθεση να το διαβάσω. Το διάβαζε ωστόσο ένας καλός μου φίλος, ο Γιώργος, και μόνο από περιέργεια, είπα να ρίξω μια ματιά στο κείμενο, και μάλιστα στο αγγλικό πρωτότυπο. Δεν χρειάστηκε κάτι περισσότερο. Δεν ξέρω τί είδους μαγείας ήταν αυτή, αλλά ό,τι κι αν είναι, με καθήλωσε και μου ήταν αδύνατον να το αφήσω από τα χέρια μου, μέχρι να φτάσω ως την τελευταία σελίδα. Στο μεταξύ σχολιάζαμε διάφορα επί του περιεχομένου με τον Γιώργο, ο οποίος μου έδωσε δυο εξαιρετικά χρήσιμα links με επεξηγηματικά και ερμηνευτικά σχόλια:

Από pynchonwiki
Από sparknotes

Η ιστορία αυτή μου θύμισε έργα όπως η «Τριλογία των Illuminatus» των Robert Shea και Robert Anton Wilson που ξεκίνησε να εκδίδεται στα 1975, το «Εκκρεμές του Φουκώ» του Umberto Eco που κυκλοφόρησε στα 1988. Πρόκειται για ένα έργο γραμμένο από έναν Αμερικανό συγγραφέα που ακόμα και σήμερα ξέρουμε ελάχιστα για την ταυτότητά του, που εκδόθηκε στα 1966, και διηγείται την αλλόκοτη ιστορία μιας νεαρής παντρεμένης γυναίκας, της Oedipa (ή Oed) Maas η οποία, εντελώς αναπάντεχα βρίσκεται να έχει οριστεί ως η εκτελέστρια της διαθήκης ενός μεγιστάνα ονόματι Pierce Inverarity. Η φαινομενικά ήρεμη και συμβατική ζωή της αναστατώνεται, καθώς στην πορεία καλείται να εξιχνιάσει μια μυστηριώδη και εξαιρετικά περίπλοκη υπόθεση.

Ο συγγραφέας καταφέρει να χωρέσει στο έργο του μια κρυπτική μικρογραφία αυτού του κόσμου, χτίζοντας έναν σύγχρονο λαβύρινθο από πρόσωπα, γεγονότα και καταστάσεις, που φαίνεται να έχει τη συνοχή μιας πλακέτας ηλεκτρονικού κυκλώματος, τη δυαδικότητα ενός ηλεκτρονικού υπολογιστή και την υπερβατικότητα ενός εκκοσμικευμένου θρησκευτικού φαινομένου. Και όλα αυτά είναι δοσμένα με άφθονες δόσεις χιούμορ πετυχαίνοντας μια εξαιρετική ισορροπία ανάμεσα στη δράση και στον στοχασμό.

«Μετά την έκδοση του V (σσ το πρώτο βιβλίο του συγγραφέα) στα 1963, ο Pynchon αναδείχθηκε σχεδόν αμέσως ως ένας από τους σημαντικότερους μεταπολεμικούς συγγραφείς που εξέφρασε τις φαντασιώσεις και τους φόβους μιας γενιάς η οποία μόλις έβγαινε από την εποχή του Μακαρθισμού, και σύντομα έμελλε να ζήσει έναν μακρύ εφιάλτη που περιείχε προεδρικές δολοφονίες, κοινωνική βία και τον πόλεμο στο Βιετνάμ [….]

Πρέπει να μπορούμε να διηγηθούμε, αυτό ακριβώς τονίζει το συγκεκριμένο μυθιστόρημα. Νιώθουμε την ανάγκη να δημιουργούμε και να προσλαμβάνουμε συγκεκριμένες δομές μέσα σε όλα όσα διαβάζουμε ή κάνουμε. Έχουμε την ανάγκη να βρίσκουμε τις διασυνδέσεις ανάμεσα στα περιστατικά της προσωπικής μας ζωής και τα μεγαλύτερα εξωτερικά γεγονότα που αποκαλούμε ως Ιστορία.

Ωστόσο μέσα σε αυτό το δίλημμα που ενυπάρχει σε όλα τα έργα του Pynchon, αλλά πρωτίστως στο συγκεκριμένο, αυτή η ανάγκη να καταλάβουμε και να αντιληφθούμε τα μοτίβα που διέπουν ένα κείμενο, τη ζωή και την ιστορία, μπορεί εύκολα να οδηγήσει στο δίπολο μιας παράνοιας εξαιτίας την οποίας από την μια υπάρχει ο φόβος του παραλόγου και από την άλλη η επιθυμία μας να βλέπουμε παντού διασυνδέσεις, συσχετισμούς και συνοχή».

(Βλέπε: Patrick O'Donnell, Emory Elliot, New Essays on The Crying of Lot 49, εκδ. Cambridge University Press, 1992)

Θεωρώ πως πρόκειται για ένα βατό κείμενο, πιστεύω πως άνετα μπορεί να διαβαστεί και από το πρωτότυπο, έχω ακούσει πως γενικά ο Pynchon θεωρείται δύσκολος συγγραφέας, μην έχοντας διαβάσει άλλο έργο του πιστεύω πως το συγκεκριμένο είναι κάτι περισσότερο από προσπελάσιμο. Είναι απολαυστικό και περιπετειώδες, ορισμένως αινιγματικό και εξαιρετικά παιγνιώδες, κάποτε ιδιαίτερα τρυφερό, γεμάτο ανθρωπιά και ευαισθησία, κάποτε σκοτεινό, γεμάτο από μυστήριο και βαθιά υπαρξιακή αγωνία. Το προτείνω σε όλους ανεπιφύλακτα.

Αισθάνομαι την ανάγκη να εκφράσω κάπως πιο αναλυτικά ορισμένες σκέψεις μου επάνω στα όσα διάβασα, αλλά δεν γίνεται να πω όσα θέλω χωρίς να προδώσω την υπόθεση. Οπότε όσα έχω να πω θα τα κρύψω.

Από εδώ και πέρα αρχίζουν τα spoiler:

Όσο διάβαζα για τη ζωή της Oedipa, στην επινοημένη πόλη του Kinneret, με τον νευρωτικό και ανασφαλή σύζυγό της και την τακτοποιημένη μικροαστική ζωή της, στην αρχή, πριν ξεκινήσει ο καταιγισμός των εξελίξεων, είχα συνέχεια στο μυαλό το έργο ενός άλλου σπουδαίου Αμερικανού συγγραφέα το «Babbitt» του Sinclair Lewis, που εκδόθηκε στα 1922 και αναφέρεται στη ζωή των ανθρώπων μιας εξίσου επινοημένης πόλης, του Zenith.

Αυτό που με εντυπωσίασε είναι η εξέλιξη της αμερικανικής κοινωνίας αλλά συνάμα και η στασιμότητά της. Και στα δύο έργα απεικονίζεται ο ίδιος ρατσισμός και η περιθωριοποίηση των αδύναμων. Και στα δύο έργα αυτοί που κινούν τα νήματα και κατευθύνουν την κοινή γνώμη είναι οι οικονομικά ισχυροί. Νέοι εγκλωβισμένοι σε μια επιφανειακή ευμάρεια, ενήλικες με κλονισμένο νευρικό σύστημα, δέσμιοι όλοι ενός ματεριαλισμού, ενός συλλογικού φαντασιακού που αποτυπώνεται στις κινηματογραφικές αίθουσες κι αργότερα στις τηλεοπτικές οθόνες, μια κοινωνία νέα απαστράπτουσα, μοντέρνα η οποία ωστόσο φαίνεται δομημένη επάνω σε έδαφος ασταθές, που εμφανίζει ρωγμές και που όσο περνάνε τα χρόνια, αυτές μεγαλώνουν και δεν μπορούν πλέον να καλυφθούν πίσω από μια φαινομενικά αψεγάδιαστη πρόσοψη.

Κατά την άποψή μου η Oedipa είναι μια θηλυκή εκδοχή του Οιδίποδα. Καλείται και αυτή να λύσει ένα αίνιγμα. Και πάνω από όλα είναι υποχρεωμένη να ερμηνεύσει όλα εκείνα τα στοιχεία που παρατίθενται μέσα στο έργο, όπως ο Οιδίπους καλείται να ερμηνεύει έναν χρησμό. Επίσης μου έδωσε την εντύπωση μιας μητρικής φιγούρας. Είναι μητέρα για όλους τους άνδρες που συναντάει και σε πολλές περιπτώσεις, άλλοτε περισσότερο και άλλοτε λιγότερο υποβόσκει το ερωτικό εκείνο στοιχείο που συναντά κανείς στη φροϋδική ψυχολογία.

Το Τρίστερο ή Τρύστρερο ως μυστική οργάνωση θεωρώ πως είναι μια σύλληψη με πολλές αδυναμίες και λογικές ασυνέπειες. Αλλά ως σύμβολο είναι μεγαλειώδες. Το μυστικό ταχυδρομείο των περιθωριακών. Η ελεύθερη διακίνηση της πληροφορίας, ο φόβος των ανθρώπων πως είναι δέσμιοι, υποχείρια μια καθεστηκυίας τάξης που απομυζεί την δημιουργικότητά τους, υποκλέπτει τα όνειρα, τις σκέψεις, τις ιδέες τους, τις εμπνεύσεις και τις καινοτομίες τους, η ανάγκη για ένα αντίβαρο, ένα αντίπαλον δέος είναι αυτά που αιτιολογούν την αναγκαιότητα της ύπαρξης μιας εξουσίας που δρα στο παρασκήνιο της επίσημης ιστορίας.

Προσωπικά δεν πιστεύω πως υπάρχει στα αλήθεια. Πιστεύω όμως στην ανάγκη των ανθρώπων να αντιταχθούν σε ό,τι τους καταπιέζει. Το Τρίστερο δεν είναι ούτε ο υπερασπιστής ούτε ο εγγυητής της ανθρώπινης ελευθερίας. Είναι η σκοτεινή, ενστικτώδης αντίδραση των ανθρώπων που δεν έχουν ούτε τη δύναμη, ούτε την ωριμότητα να καλυτερεύσουν τις ζωές τους οπότε λειτουργούν αντιδραστικά. Ίσως να μην συνειδητοποιούμε πως δημιουργώντας το αντεστραμμένο είδωλο μιας νοσηρής κατάστασης λειτουργούμε εξισορροπητικά στηρίζοντας τελικά εκείνο που υποτίθεται πως αντιστρατευόμαστε.

ΥΓ: Λευτέρη Λ. δεν θα σε ξεχάσω ποτέ:
«Οι έσχατοι καιροί ήρθαν! Όλοι θυμάστε εκείνο το σημάδι στα ουράνια!»
«Κομήτης ήτανε κύριε! Με καταγεγραμμένη τροχιά και ονοματεπώνυμο!»

Napornost ovog čitanja mogu da uporedim samo sa drugim Pinčonovim romanom (V.) i ni sa čim drugim, računajući kojekakve eseje, epistolografiju, sociološka teoretisanja i dosadnologije tog tipa. I nije preterano bitno u kom svom romanu je Pinčon naporniji.
Ne zanima me da li je on unesrećen nekim ozbiljnim mentalnim poremećajem ili su mu mozak spržile hard core hipi drogudže, no, iza tog... nečeg, izbija izuzetna obrazovanost i još izuzetnija inteligencija, sa pripadajućom količinom nadmenosti za obe kategorije.
Osnovni preduslov da se nekome dopadne ova knjiga je jak želudac za paranoično kukumavčenje nad ugnjetavajućim sistemom – šizofreno, na američki način – i ložački detektivski drajv da se tom zlikovačkom ustrojstvu zabode kolac pravo u srce, uz prigodno buntovničko Uraaaaaaa! ako je po volji.
A mene je blagodatni Kosmos toga poštedeo.
Da ovo ne bi zvučalo kao žešći rant, neću da kažem da je Pinčon jedan modernistički seronja (ne baš obični, ne ni totalni, ali seronja) koji iz ćoška sopstvenog apsura tripoznim tonom propoveda: „Hej, da li je to zaista tako, ili je to još jedan Njihov zaverenički napad na Nas, kao što je gotovo sve do sada bilo, zapravo, zamka, pa si i Ti možda trik? Ali, ako si Ti Mi, to jest, ako si Ti ti, to jest, ako je ova veza koju sada osećam kao vapaj demona Tvog identiteta ono što i Ti osećaš, neka nam se tela spoje u Jedno (nemoj zameriti, ovaj vonj, to je od mačije kake, nas dvoje delimo ovaj madrac u ovoj kartonskoj kutiji, najzad, nije li sve to Naše), hajde, pređi na Našu stranu, gde smo svi štrokavi, klošari, sami i nesrećni, ovde makar sigurno znaš da ništa nije onako kako misliš da jeste, da stvarnost nije stvarna (osećaš, više i ne smrdi!), ni mi nismo Mi, ni ti nisi Ti, ali ako pratiš prave znake, a ne lažnjake, i ako ih tumačiš na neki cool način, saznaćeš, ako se išta saznati može. Avaj.“
E, fakju!

Kad se izuzme taj deo (tema i poenta), ostaje nekoliko maestralnih slika, vraški moćnih aluzija, sjajna atmosfera histerije i ludila i dobri temelji za ono što će Oster, DeLilo i potonji „najvažniji pisci moderne američke književnosti“ prekrajati i prepisivati.
To što je Pinčon hteo da uradi treba baš ovako da se uradi i nikako drugačije, te u tom smislu jeste bitan i jeste majstor. Za tu uverljivost i doslednost ideji koju propagira (iako ona stoji sasvim nasuprot svemu onome što volim u književnosti) – korektna trojka.
David Albahari se, neosporno, potrudio oko prevoda koji nije loš, ali se iz aviona vidi da ga je radio – David Albahari.

“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.”

I read this wonderful book (a very slim little book), over the weekend and because of it I am sure to add Thomas Pynchon to the ranks of my favorite stylists and storytellers - and look forward to adding his books to the station of my "read" shelf. For some reason when I sat down to write this review, the words of Rilke (of all people!) echoed in my head: "I live my life in ever widening circles that reach out across the world. I may not ever complete the last one, but I give myself to it." In The Crying of Lot 49, that too is the experience of Oedipa Maas: that she is an infinitesimally small cog in the scheme of things, that she is alone and unimportant and abandoned in her own ever-expanding world and consciousness, but in the end she gives herself over to that growing and accepted expansion, whether it is truth or not. And isn't that the sort of self-sacrifice and apotheosis we all submit ourselves to as readers? What strikes me after reading this short novel is how well it serves as a metaphor for reading, or learning in an overall way - and much learning is to be had in the deceptively few (150) pages of this novel/la.

Perhaps a trademark of Pynchon is the obvious and visible wires of fiction: the absurd names, the ridiculous situations. The Crying of Lot 49 is both clearly a work of fiction, and also as clearly something else: an amusing miscellany. Philately, physics, the history of the postal service, the clandestine subcultures of the west, LSD therapy, etc. are all touched upon in the mere 150 pages of this book. Upon every little hint at something historical, something which seemed to be as possibly fact as fiction, the reader is sent almost automatically to some resource (thank god for the Internet) to discover its veracity or verisimilitude. And isn't this the same mania which acts upon Oedipa Maas? For every tiny clue she is compelled to discover a thousand more hints, a million more mysteries which all seem spiraling haphazardly around her: and how has she never known them? How have I never heard of Maxwell's demon? (it is a real theory in thermodynamics! It even has a thorough wiki page! and dates back to 1872!) How have I never even heard of Thurn and Taxis? I've studied European history, I was even at one time very interested in the validity of publicly-owned and operated mail systems! (nerd that I am!) And Oedipa experiences the same shock at her own gaps of knowledge, her ignorance at something which she feels she could never have missed. Whenever we open a book of any genre we open a mystery which is yet to be solved: we are sure to learn something new, even if (or especially if) we are re-reading. In Pynchon that is a bit more obvious, learning facts of history, theories of physics or mathematics, is a much more tangible kind of learning: those are things we can share and teach, but they are not all we can learn. When reading literature we are examining a conspiracy from both the top-down and from the bottom-up. What we learn is not merely the edges and corners which hold the labyrinth in place, but also the motivations and drives which move the mice along the paths which lead to their destruction or deliverance. A wedge of cheese does not move them all, no two mice navigate the same route. And in these details which we are scarcely likely to integrate in our dinner conversation we learn something much more important to our lives than Maxwell's demon or LSD therapy or the mating habits of childstars turned attorneys: we learn what it is to be human. Oedipa learns more about herself along the way than she does about the historical postal empires of the West. She discovers her own insecurities and dependencies, what makes her unhappy and what is truly important to her, she discovers what she does not know and what she may never know, she embraces uncertainty. At the close of the novel, she is no longer the simple woman returning home from the plastic superficiality of a Tupperware party, she is a gladiator girding herself as a martyr for what is perhaps only a fiction, a cruel joke from an abandoned and dead ex-lover.

Amid the exhaust, sweat, glare and ill-humor of a summer evening on an American freeway, Oedipa Maas pondered her Trystero problem.

What the heck is Lot 49 and why should I feel like crying over it? Oedipa Maas, a young California housewife, is named executor in the will of a former boyfriend, an elusive billionaire named Pierce Inverarity. Her work takes her along unexpected paths where she meets many oddball characters acting increasingly suspicious. Many events appear related to the performance of a Jacobean revenge play by an amateur troupe, alluding to a secret organization named Trystero , also known under the acronym WASTE and using for self-identification the symbol of a muted post horn. Decorating each alienation, each species of withdrawal, as cufflink, decal, aimless doodling, there was somehow always the post horn.

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.

Oedipa Maas is not the only one wondering what is the purpose of this whole circus.
Let me make it easier to potential new divers into the Pynchon literary universe: relax, let it happen and enjoy the ride! Making sense is not all it’s cracked to be. “The Crying of Lot 49” is an anti-novel, a post-modernist experimental piece of literature that aims to unsettle the readership expectations in order to make them more open to active participation in the project. Coming soon on the footsteps of Julio Cortazar in this year’s personal journey, I find it very easy to draw parallels between the two stories, especially in view of the way Pynchon ‘hopscotches’ from one wild scene to the next, from one metaphor to another, without the slightest regard for plot progression or character arcs. Yet, in both cases, a clear image, a sort of final message, can be deduced from the maze-like journey.

The act of metaphor then was a thrust at truth and a lie, depending where you were: inside, safe, or outside, lost. Oedipa did not know where she was.

Oedipa Maas starts the journey safe in her home, with a DJ husband and weekly visits to her psycho-therapist, dr. Hilarius. Each step she takes following the Inverarity legacy takes her further and further away from her comfort zone and into what Pynchon alternately refers to as: a salad of despair, a conspiracy theory extravaganza, the entropic death of communication, experimental-induced insanity (‘an experiment on effects of LSD-25, mescaline, psilocybin, and related drugs on a large sample of suburban housewives’), a whole underworld of suicides who failed, a clandestine Mexican outfit known as the Conjuration de los Insurgentes Anarquistas (the CIA), music made purely of Antarctic loneliness and fright ... an avalanche of metaphor that becomes increasingly clear is meant to represent the growing alienation of modern life.

... clipped coupons promising savings of 5c or 10c, trading stamps, pink fliers advertising specials at the markets, butts, tooth-shy combs, help-wanted ads, Yellow Pages torn from the phone book, rags of old underwear or dresses that already were period costumes, for wiping your own breath off the inside of a windshield with so you could see whatever it was, a movie, a woman or a car you coveted, a cop who might pull you over just for drill, all the bits and pieces coated uniformly, like a salad of despair, in a gray dressing of ash, condensed exhaust, dust, body wastes ...

With a panoply of wild characters such as Peter Pinguid, Mike Fallopian, Mucho Maas, dr. Hilarius, Randy Driblette, Thomas Wharfinger, Genghis Cohen, Inigo Barfstable, John Nefastis, Jesus Arrabal, Emory Bortz, Winthrop Tremayne, Diocletian Blobb and many others, Oedipa’s journey is often funny/ ridiculous, prompting speculation that Pynchon is actually sabotaging his own post-modernist credentials. His own commentary on the novel points more towards a searching for a personal voice in this debut novel, of experimentation with style and content. It is in my view a sort of ‘Sturm und Drang’ campaign to make a splash and get noticed, and it succeeds in a rather spectacular way.

In one of the latrines was an advertisement by ACDC, standing for Alameda County Death Cult, along with a box number and a post horn. Once a month they were to choose some victim from among the innocent, the virtuous, the socially integrated and well-adjusted, using him sexually, then sacrificing him.

The leitmotif of insider/outsider positioning becomes more evident with each iteration of the post horn symbol, with each revelation about yet another secret organization, functioning in parallel with official post service or government services. Insiders are the people who accept things as they are and don’t bother with existentialist anguish. Outsiders are those failed suicides who use the WASTE system to communicate or those who join clubs like ACDC or IA.

“The pin I’m wearing means I’m a member of the IA. That’s Innamorati Anonymous. An innamorato is somebody in love. That’s the worst addiction of all.”

Oedipa starts on the inside, but she is increasingly worried about her identity and about her future in this world of rampant secrets and wild acronym societies.

They are stripping away from me, she said subvocally – feeling like a fluttering curtain in a very high window, moving up to then out over the abyss – they are stripping away, one by one, my men.

For all his apparent disdain for classic forms of the novel, Pynchon hides all his clues, all his keys to locked rooms, in plain view and delivers them with a poetic flair that can take your breath away when you least expect it.

“I came hoping you could talk me out of a fantasy.”
“Cherish it!” cried Hilarius, fiercely. “What else do 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.”

So maybe Trystero and all that jazz is just a fantasy, a by-product of drug experimentation and frustration with a boring life, but I would rather be outside in the cold with the crazies and the suicidal poets than inside with the bingo-night or TV dinner crowd. Which takes us back to the question of the significance of Lot 49  a batch of counterfeit stamps left by Inverarity, to be sold at auction or ‘cried’ by the end of the novel . The answer is one of those clues hidden in plain sight, taken from another conversation between Oedipa and her fading away men : a real alternative to the exitlessness, to the absence of surprise in life, that harrows the head of everybody American you know, and you too, sweetie. , the answer is in one of those haunting images of walkers along the roads at night, zooming in and out of your headlights without looking up, too far away from any town to have a real destination.

I don’t consider these final revelations spoilers since they make following the journey of Oedipa Maas easier on an eventual re-read. They are also explaining why I kept humming a Simon & Garfunkel tune as I turned the final pages (the one with the line "I'm empty and aching and I don't know why") :

She had dedicated herself, weeks ago, to making sense of what Inverarity had left behind, never suspecting that the legacy was America.

Highly recommended!

>>><<<>>><<<

I’ve left out a striking episode in a strip mall, where Oedipa confronts Winthrop Tremayne, an opportunist who sells ‘government surplus swastikas’ . The episode might sound at first glance like a funny throwaway scene, but as I am writing my review on Election Day 2020, the reference seems ominously predictive of current affairs. Yikes!

I'm not sure how much I care for Thomas Pynchon's brand of postmodernism. On the one hand, The Crying of Lot 49 contains interesting ideas, culminating in a weird trip down Paranoia Lane. On the other hand, the writing is so detached and plain weird that it is hard to emotionally invest in the characters. As a novel of ideas, then, The Crying of Lot 49 has some merit; as a reading experience it's rather less rewarding. It feels like a 200-page story crammed into 127 pages, and that's not a compliment.

For what it's worth, the story is as follows. Oedipa Maas, a married lady living in 1960s California, is unexpectedly made executrix of her dead ex-boyfriend's estate. While carrying out her duties, she comes across strange goings-on which may or may not point to the existence of a secret postal service. The clues keep piling up. Are they mere coincidences or is there a sinister conspiracy afoot? And if even something as basic as post delivery is subject to a conspiracy, what else may be going on in society? Keen to find answers, Oedipa digs into the clues, only to get sucked into what is best described as a wild and obsessive brainstorm.

As I said, there are some interesting ideas going on here. Pynchon has a definite knack for mixing fact and fiction, to the point where you find yourself Googling things to see what is truth and what is fiction. He also quite successfully makes you buy into the conspiracy theory. Sadly, though, he's rather self-indulgent, blending good stuff with lengthy passages of dense, impenetrable prose that don't really seem to go anywhere. These passages do serve a purpose in that they make the reader as confused as Oedipa herself (a confusion further strengthened by the maddening open ending), but for all their paranoia-inducing quality, I wish Pynchon had taken more time to flesh out his story, to turn it into an actual novel with flesh-and-blood characters and emotions rather than an exercise in cleverness. In short, I wish the book had more pages. I didn't think I'd ever say that about a Pynchon novel, but here it's true: less is not always more. Alas.

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:
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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...

Roman koji staje u rečenicu: "da li xyz ne postoji, ili ja samo ne vidim xyz?".

Nije ovo loše, daleko od toga, deli mnoge karakteristike sa većim Pinčonovim romanima: suluda imena i likovi (Džingis Koen favorit), kompleksna radnja, podjednako postmodernistička koliko i parodija na postmodernizam, vokabular za petaka. Ali i nedostaje mu nešto što te veće Pinčonove romane i čini, pa, većim: Mejson i Diksonova (koji je meni lično možda i najbliži "omiljenom" romanu) humanost, dekadentnost i još hiljadu i jedna stvar Gravitacije, lavirintska intratekstualnost V. Još, za Pinčona potpuno čudno, ovo je krcato ekspozicijom. Iskreno me zanima zbog čega se i on sam ogradio od ovog romana/novele. Ne bih baš išao toliko daleko kao on ("šta mi bi da ovo napišem"), ali čitao sam i bolje njegove (ključna reč).

4-

No estoy seguro de haber entendido nada, pero ahora sé por qué muchos consideran a Pynchon «el mejor de los escritores vivos».

“What did she so desire escape from? 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?”
Oedipa Maas was named an executor of the estate of Pierce Inverarity, her ex-lover. She travels to San Narciso, California, meets the other executor and Inverarity’s lawyer, Metzger, and they begin an affair. In the process of reviewing Inverarity’s assets, Oedipa uncovers an alternative mailing system, working tangentially to or in opposition to the official US postal network, known as Tristero. With each additional clue verifying the existence of Tristero, Oedipa’s paranoia grows and she begins to question the motives of the people around her and her own sanity. She starts to feel that there was not only misinformation concerning this other postal system but comes to understand the existence of a deceit at the core of American society. By the end of the novel Oedipa loses her husband, Wendell Maas, to LSD; her psychiatrist, Dr. Hillarius, to psychosis; her lover, Metzger, to a teenage girl; and the playwright who informed her of Tristero, Randy Driblette, to suicide. The novel ends with Oedipa attending an auction of Inverarity’s stamps, designated lot 49, hoping to discover the Tristero agent that was there to bid on them. She waits for the auction to begin, for the auctioneer to cry out the bids.

"’Look, you have to help me. Because I really think I am going out of my head.’
‘You have the wrong outfit, Arnold. Talk to your clergyman.’
‘I use the U. S. Mail because I was never taught any different,’ she pleaded. ‘But I'm not your enemy. I don't want to be.’”
The revelation Oedipa Maas has was not about the Tristero postal system but about the existence of a class of forgotten people that she met along the way. They were the poor and disabled, the unwanted and unloved or simply the outsiders. And she was able to feel affection and sympathy for their plight. This was the deceit at the core of the system. For at times of her greatest distress, one of these lost individuals intervened. They may not have always been helpful or courteous but they saw her and finally Oedipa Maas saw them back.
“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, unpublicized, private. Since they could not have withdrawn into a vacuum (could they?), there had to exist the separate, silent, unsuspected world.”

Third Reading

Catch me as a guest of the Books of Some Substance Podcast, Episode 90: The Crying of Lot 49

I have endeavoured to make you think differently about this book.

Second Reading

I had forgotten how damn good this book is. The precision and control on display in these slim 126 pages are second to none as far as Pynchon's novels go. Immediately reasserted itself as one of my favourites. More to come.

First Reading

Dream logic is the currency in which Pynchon trades, his works a constant of flux of flamboyant characters (an understatement), twisted plot machinations, and conspiratorial paranoia. Moment-by-moment, the events seem plausible, but the serpentine narrative twists upon itself surreally and repeatedly until I find myself asking, “how the fuck did we get here?!”.

In classic Pynchon fashion, I find myself trying to tie mental string between places and faces, attempting to piece together anything that vaguely resembles a narrative through-line. His worlds are challenging, and Taxing (pun intended), but his prose proves time and time again to be worth the trouble. Both deeply provocative and ponderous, his manner in describing even the most mundane of circumstances makes each moment jump off the page and explode into a fireworks display in my mind’s eye.

Despite my utter delight at the absurdity of this ragtag cast of marginalized caricatures (here’s looking at you Mike... Fallopian?), the main criticism is directed at said characters. I felt the comedy derived from their shining uniqueness was often done so at the expense of depth. I never felt I knew any of the key players well, most particularly the lead Oedipa. They elicited enjoyment certainly, but I felt they were under-drawn, functioning more as narrative fuel than people.

Nevertheless, it with firm certainty that I suggest you don’t sleep on this crazy bastard - he’s well worth your time.

Interested in sophisticated fun? You, hubby, girlfriends?
The more the merrier. Get in touch with Tristero, through
WASTE only, Box 49.

Its funny how Pynchon does not scares me anymore. He is not the tentacled Cthulhu (thanks Mr. Lovecraft for my insomniac exhibits) I thought he was. I guess Gravity’s Rainbow was the ice-breaker. But what’s this obsession with myriad dimensions of entropy, Thomas? The explosive universal "black hole". Drives me nuts at times!! Who am I kidding? Entropy and thermodynamics are Pynchon’s bitches. They hover around him no matter what hallucinogenic concoctions I consume. Thus, I will not be ranting on how the micro/macro societal elements randomly escalate in a chasm of chaos and exponential disparity. Blah…Blah….Blah.

Crying Lot of 49 is a fearless indulgence. A petite manuscript (127pgs), it is an ideal doorway to 'Pynchonville'. For those who are by now familiar with inescapable Slothrop’s paranoia or Zoyd’s ruthless nostalgia, it’s a cool glass of lemonade on a scorching summer day.

Lest if you ever venture in this avant-garde communiqué vortex, let me facilitate a plausible comprehension.

Oedipa Maas- Unfortunately does not relate to parent-fixated sexual issues. She is a principle model of muddled estrangement. The executor of Pierce’s will, Maas is relentlessly under hallucinogenic high with a healthy sexual appetite. Why doesn’t that surprise me? A chick on a healthy LSD dosage and voracious sexual treat. That’s a pretty good start. Well done Thomas! Wait….roll it back. What was that blessed letter Maas got which made her frantically drive up to San Narciso. Ah! The communicative passage to several metaphoric symbols and signs. Who said being rich was easy?Hmmm..what about her husband Mucho Maas? Well, besides being a disc jockey at a local radio station-KCUF, the dreary bloke got nothing much to do except being a lab rat in Dr.Hilarius’ LSD-25 testing. Better watch out for the non-linear existence of Metzger Mike Fallopian, Nefastis and Cohen, they could be a handful with their coherent scientific interpretations.

Stamps- Things I used to like licking as a kid. Yeah, there are the same tiny labels that you stick (used to) on the upper right corner of the envelope. They can fetch you couple cents or if you have the ‘right’ set could earn you a fortune at Christie’s.

Thurn and Taxis- The "big kahuna" of the postal conspiracy. Or is it? Arrghhh… Those archaic European postal houses. They sure knew how to revolutionize monopoly.

W.A.S.T.E. - where inter-looped communication brings life in the ongoing deaf-mute conspiracy. Quite the sinister entity!

Porky Pig, Bugs Bunny, Baby Igor and KCUF – just for kicks yet intentional metaphysical symbols inferring human demeanor.

Jeez! These nasty voices in my head. Why wasn’t I a child of the 60s? Why can’t I still lick stamps for pleasure without being charily stared at? And why are these Harajuku girls serenading me?

Suddenly I have an urge to listen to Beatles and roll a rizla at Tristero. Now only if I could find my mail from Dr. Hilarius.