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:
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...

Reading The Crying of Lot 49 reminded me of the first time I watched Mulholland Drive. There was hair pulling. There was rewinding and pausing and what?!what?!thefuck?!what?! The remote was flung across the room. There may have almost been tears. It was wonderfully frustrating and deliciously delusional. Yes, Mr Lynch, Mr Pynchon , you're so so clever and lil average me is a mere mortal squirming around on your chess tables...

But I don't care. Confuse me. It's better than most of the crap out there. I'd rather be scratching my forehead than slapping it.

Chaos. The 1960's. 'Shrooms. Change. Awakening. Sleep. Dreams. Life. Ahhhh, yeah.

Ξεχωριστή περίπτωση σημαίνει ότι δεν είναι απλώς καλός συγγραφέας αλλά μοναδικός: κάτι παρόμοιο με τον τρελό του χωριού που είτε τον συμπαθείς, είτε τον φοβάσαι, είτε τον θαυμάζεις, είτε τον περιφρονείς, αντιδράσεις που συχνά συγκλίνουν στην ταυτόχρονη «αναγνώριση» και «απώθηση» της παραδοξότητας, του αλλόκοτου, του ανοίκειου. Η κυρίαρχη αποτύπωση αυτής της εμπειρίας συνοψίζεται στην αίσθηση ότι κάτι συμβαίνει εδώ. Το «κάτι» δε σημαίνει «οτιδήποτε» αλλά «ιδιαίτερο», «παράξενο»: σαν αίνιγμα που ζητά να αναμετρηθούμε μαζί του. (Δημήτρης Δημηρούλης, πρόλογος από την έκδοση «Η συλλογή των 49 στο σφυρί»-Thomas Pynchon, εκδ. Gutenberg 2017 σ. 30)

Πρώτη φορά που διαβάζω Πίντσον, σε μια συνανάγνωση με την καλή μου φίλη τη Νένε (Το Άσχημο). Το βιβλίο το διάβασα στη μετάφραση του Δημήτρη Δημηρούλη από τις εκδόσεις Gutenberg στην υπέροχη σειρά Aldina. Θα προτιμούσα βέβαια να το διαβάσω στο πρωτότυπο αλλά η μετάφραση ήταν αξιοπρεπέστατη, αν και χάνονταν αρκετά πράγματα κυρίως από λεκτικά παιχνίδια που αποδίδονται κάπως «απονευρωμένα» στο ελληνικό κείμενο. Το ίδιο το βιβλίο όμως είναι εξαιρετικό, ένα υπέροχο δημιούργημα ενός εμπνευσμένου, μυστηριώδους δημιουργού.

Η Οιδίπα Μάας είναι μια νέα παντρεμένη γυναίκα, μικροαστή Αμερικανίδα της δεκαετίας του ‘60 σε μια φανταστική πόλη, το Κίνερετ-αμόνγκ-δε-πάινς. Το βιβλίο ξενικά με την Οιδίπα να επιστρέφει από μια επίδειξη τάπερ και να μαθαίνει πως ορίστηκε συνεκτελέστρια της διαθήκης του Πιρς Ινβεράριτι (Pierce Inverarity) -τα ονόματα έχουν μεγάλη σημασία- ενός μεγιστάνα πρώην της, που έμενε μόνιμα στο Σαν Ναρκίσο, μια πόλη κοντά στο Λος Άντζελες. Είναι παντρεμένη με τον Μάτσο Μάας και ζει έναν συμβατικό βαρετό γάμο με τον αδύναμο και σχεδόν άβουλο σύζυγό της. Μόλις φτάνει στο Σαν Ναρκίσο αρχίζει να ξεδιπλώνεται μια ιστορία που θα μας απασχολήσει σε όλο το βιβλίο.

Ο Πίντσον δημιουργεί ένα κείμενο αριστοτεχνικό συνδυάζοντας τη σύγχρονη ζωή στην Αμερική με την τηλεόραση και την ταύτισή της με την πραγματικότητα, την ποπ κουλτούρα, τις μπάντες των «επαναστατημένων» νέων, τα ναρκωτικά (χόρτο, LSD), τους περιθωριακούς που ζουν εξαθλιωμένοι σε μια Αμερική που υπόσχεται ευημερία σε όλους (βλ. Κεφ. 1 αφήγηση Μάτσο Μάας για την καθημερινότητα στη μάντρα αυτοκινήτων). Το ζουμί της υπόθεσης είναι μια συνωμοσία (;) που γίνεται εμμονή της Οιδίπας όταν βλέπει το σύμβολο μιας τρομπέτας με μια σουρντίνα (https://i.imgur.com/Fohchoj.jpg) και τη συνδέει με διάφορα γεγονότα για να καταλήξει στην ύπαρξη του Τρίστερο ή Τρύστερο, μιας ομάδας που δρα υπογείως για να αντικαταστήσει τα ταχυδρομεία (ή μήπως όχι;).

Αυτή είναι πάνω-κάτω η υπόθεση σε πολύ αδρές γραμμές καθώς αδυνατώ να αποτυπώσω το μεγαλείο της γραφής, καλύτερο θα ήταν να δοκιμάσει κανείς μόνος του να αναμετρηθεί με τον συγγραφέα. Η γραφή λοιπόν του Πίντσον είναι πολύ ιδιαίτερη. Το συγκεκριμένο έργο του εκδόθηκε το 1966 και είναι το δεύτερο βιβλίο (πρώτο ήταν η «V.») του μυστηριώδους αυτού συγγραφέα που γεννήθηκε το 1937. Έχει μια γραφή ολόδική του που μπορεί κανείς να την αναγνωρίσει εύκολα, χαρακτηρίζεται μεταμοντέρνα, και σου τρελαίνει το μυαλό. Αμέτρητα λογοπαίγνια, ονόματα χαρακτήρων που σου κλείνουν το μάτι, παράλογοι χαρακτήρες, αλλόκοτα περιστάτικα, συνωμοσίες που υφαίνονται από τον δαιμόνιο Πίντσον και σε κάνουν να πιστεύεις πως συμβαίνουν καθώς και να αναρωτιέσαι αν όλα συμβαίνουν στη φαντασία σου όπως η ίδια η ηρωίδα, γίνεσαι ο ίδιος ένας πιντσονικός χαρακτήρας! Επίσης οι εμμονές του συγγραφέα εξίσου πολλές, ο Θεός, η ιεροφάνεια, τα ναρκωτικά, η επικοινωνία και κυρίως η έλλειψή της, οι έννοιες της αποκάλυψης και της επιφοίτησης που φωτίζουν και συσκοτίζουν τα μυαλά των ηρώων και των αναγνωστών. Ένα βιβλίο εθιστικό, παιγνιώδες, με περιπέτεια, αρκετή τρέλα δουλεμένη με μαεστρία κι ένα έργο που δε θα ξεχαστεί από κανέναν. Στο μέλλον (να συνέλθω πρώτα!) θα αναζητήσω σίγουρα και άλλα έργα του Τόμας Πίντσον.

Τέλος, η ανάγνωση του Πίντσον μαζί με τη Νένε έγινε κάτω από περίεργες συνθήκες. Όπως ο Πιρς Ινβεράριτι οδηγεί τη ζωή της Οιδίπας (ή έτσι νομίζει εκείνη) από το επέκεινα, έτσι κι εμάς μάς οδήγησε στον Πίντσον ένας παλιός φίλος που δεν είναι πλέον στη ζωή. Έγινε κάπως έτσι: μόλις πληροφορήθηκα τον θάνατό του (αρκετά καθυστερημένα ομολογώ) θυμήθηκα την εμμονή του με τον Τ. Πίντσον και αποφάσισα αμέσως να τον διαβάσω, μετά μπήκε στην ανάγνωση και η Νένε κι έτσι κολλήσαμε και οι δύο με τη γραφή του αλλόκοτου αυτού συγγραφέα, όπως ήταν και η γραφή του Λευτέρη, αλλόκοτη, σαγηνευτική. Θα ήθελα λοιπόν να κλείσω με κάποιους στίχους που συνάδουν με το περιεχόμενο του βιβλίου και το λινκ από το μπλογκ του.

Κι αν τη μέρα φτύνεις γράσο, αιθάλη, λιωμένο λάστιχο και άσφαλτο, τη νύχτα μου μιλάς γι απόκρυφα με κώδικες και σύμβολα...

Και το λινκ για το μπλογκ του: http://rainmansway2.blogspot.com/

I really enjoyed both Gravity's Rainbow and Mason & Dixon, but this effort felt flat to me, all joke and no seriousness of purpose. Whereas both GR and MD had their share of satire and often strained attempts at humor, they also had a deadly serious side, a sense that they were "about something" larger, that I confess I couldn't glean from this slimmer work. Really, there are only so many puns and crazy character names and odd paranoid acronyms I can take. I'm sure much of the fault lies with me, for not seeing beyond all this, and maybe someday I'll revisit the novel and slap myself on the head as I realize all I'd missed. Then I'll come back and amend this review and point out how silly I feel to have ever written it! Until then, the silliness rules. Or doesn't. Or something. I don't know.

The kind of book that makes people hate books. Literally one of, if not, the worst story I've ever read. A classic English majors only book, aka people like talking about this book and that they "get it" make you feel like their intellectual inferior. This book is the literary equivalent of some hipster noise band that everyone knows sucks but people will say they are good just to be in the "know."

I must say this before I get a bunch of messages from people looking down their nose at me. I do "get it" I got an A on the paper I wrote on this book but what I "get" more is that there is nothing to "get." It's the act of "getting it" and being part of that special little crew that does that makes people enjoy this book. They enjoy more looking down upon those simpletons who don't "get" it than they enjoy the story. Get what I'm saying?

If you enjoy art that makes a statement, try this book. If you enjoy books for the story they tell and the messages you can extract from that story, avoid this book. It's up to you.

Just absolutely and enthrallingly delightful to read from the very beginning to the very end, a rollicking psychomystery oddity that packs more content in 150-some odd pages than many authors would even attempt to in a 600-700 page epic. This book is dense, narratively layered like an apparatus of funhouse mirrors reflecting reality and myth (especially cultural myth) back at each other in a supernova of genre obliteration, the prose at times so verbose and high-minded as to be totally inscrutable and other times so simple as to be ridiculously easy. There are no easy answers plotwise in "Lot 49", a mystery without end or resolution, a web of twisted and surreally mundane conspiracies looping back in on each other in ways that may matter or may not at all. Pynchon's letting you into the water at whatever reading pace you're comfortable with, but if you wanna crack the codes upon codes hidden in this narrative, he ain't gonna hold your hand - it's engage totally on its level or not, and that philosophy is something more authors and artists in general could do well to prioritize.

But what this book really is, beyond everything else, is fun. This is, without exaggeration, the most wall-to-wall enjoyment I've had reading a book at least over the past 6 months, even if I fully admit there's no way I "got" all of this on first read (really, how could anyone?). "Lot 49" breaks genre and literary convention and it hops confidently from style to style and concept to concept in what I can only describe as anarchistic abandon; it never dourly posits itself as a literary morse code to be broken, even though its plot certainly is, but Pynchon's writing is so playful, punning, and suffused with an unmistakable air of mischief that it's impossible for this not to be an amusingly disorienting and cerebrally thrilling experience. At times as heady as an intellectual treatise and at times as gutbustingly hilarious as the best slapstick cartoons (seriously, this is one of the funniest books I've read in years; the aerosol/"beachball with feet" sequence speaks for itself, among countless others), philosophical monologues and paranoid ramblings and smashing together disparate philosophical concepts and technology, a coy and contemptuously sarcastic attitude toward American capitalism and Cold War consumerism, and general drugged out proto-hippie weirdness are all in equal parts spotlight in "Lot 49". Pynchon isn't holding your hand, like I said, but he's also making sure to provide you with as much oddball entertainment and intrigue as his impressive imagination allows for. And while I'm super down with the occasional hyperserious experimental novel, I'm glad Pynchon's sense of bizarro Dadaist abandon exists among the field to balance the scale.

Basically, if I had to describe the plot in any way, it's this: classy American everywoman Oedipa Maas is unexpectedly made executor to the will of a billionaire ex lover, and through a series of revelations and conspiratorial gestures from various eccentric characters, it's revealed of the possible connections between her now-estate and a centuries-long conspiracy involving a Jacobean revenge play, the depths and intricacies of the United States postal service, and a mysterious order revolving around a suspiciously occult horn symbol and the word "Tristero". What follows is a coked out run-on sentence fever dream down the twisting and contracting corridors of Oedipa's mind and suddenly odd life, full of paranoia, mobius strip plot threads, weirdos of all kinds, bureaucratic jargon, psychedelic slapstick comedy, technological thought experiments, and journeys through a surreal alternate dimension 60s California. It's really difficult to describe the narrative of this book with any coherence, because it completely does away with any conventional method of storytelling. Focus on the plot threads and try to piece them together, but don't be too mad if you can't get it all on the first try; novels are sensory experiences just as much as narrative ones, and in cases like "The Crying of Lot 49", sometimes even more so. It's by design; let go and enjoy the ride.

It's more than just pure visceral excitement that this book nails, though. The approach to conspiracy in "Lot 49" exposes the inherent paranoia beyond the mundane reality of existing in surveillance states such as the United States, one channeled through Oedipa's increasing madness and disconnect from reality (or is it the opposite, fuller clarity? It's never quite clear, lending further it to its status as a mystery without a resolution). Oedipa scratches the surface of a power structure vastly beyond her scope, and as the answers she seeks never fully unfurl, she begins to bend under the weight of the system's perceived all-seeing eye. It could just be paranoia, but isn't it possible that, given what we know about fascist establishments - their tendency towards historical revisionism, the right wing's increasingly open reliance on "alternate facts", the denial and covering up of US-funded tragedies and conspiracies, etc. - could it not be possible Oedipa is onto something no one wants her to know? The answers, while undefined, illuminate a disquieting proposition - that we are always and inevitably beneath the palm of an unfathomably vast system of hegemonic control and surveillance, regardless of one's own "madness" or not (Pynchon is appropriately careful to not make any prescriptive judgements on Oedipa). By leaving us as ultimately in the dark as Oedipa is, we are no closer to coming face to face with the truth than she, though the novel itself and her character both illuminate the fear of knowing what we all on some level understand we are situated beneath yet consciously choose to ignore for most of our waking moments.

If still unconvinced, then I'll just reiterate that this book contains the following: florid literary rambles, philosophy, childish cartoon humor and physics, impeccable comedic delivery and timing, sarcasm, the deceit of capitalism, Lynchian disconnect of reality and communication, Maxwell's Demon, psychological explorations, postage stamp art, nonsensical babblings from LSD addicts, Nazi therapists who put much stock into the funny faces they can make, musical numbers with highly abstract lyrical imagery, plays-within-books, TV-show-episodes-within-books, an implicitly alternate dimension America, Machiavellian medieval warfare, people named Genghis Cohen and Mike Fallopian, all wrapped up in the conceit of an absolutely oddball whodunit that is essentially about mailmen. And all of that in a less than 200 page volume. If any of that sounds appealing to you and you're willing to take a crack at something more cerebral than narrative, this is absolutely what you want to read. One of those novels that remind me why I love literature, and I am very excited that this was not only my introduction to the wide world of Pynchon, but my first read of the year. A fantastic way to kick off both journeys.

"Either way, they'll call it paranoia. They. Either you have stumbled indeed, without the aid of LSD or other indole alkaloids, onto a secret richness and concealed density of dream; onto a network by which X number of Americans are communicating whilst reserving their lies, recitations of routine, arid betrayals of spiritual poverty, for the official government delivery system; maybe even onto a real alternative to the existlessness, to the absence of surprise to life, that harrows the head of everybody American you know, and you too, sweetie."

918

September reread!! This was my first Pynchon back in January [the beginning of what has become the Year of Pynchon for me] and I was curious to see how I would react to it a second time through having read most of his other works since. My original review now kind of reads like slightly embarrassing gawking from a Pynchon first-timer in retrospect, but my enthusiasm wasn't unfounded, and this is still a great little book. With hindsight, it really is a much less complex works than his others; the central narrative device here is a pretty straightforward whodunit sort of mystery, it's just filtered through Pynchon's interest in open-endedness, hallucinatory prose and paranoia - it's such a condensation of his themes while not really fully tackling any of them, so I do kind of understand why the author himself thinks it's a lesser work. But there's still a lot working here nonetheless that he gives central focus here that makes the novel stand out - namely the focus on a personalized paranoia in Oedipa's character that becomes more institutionalized in TP's larger fares, an exploration of how every little bit of our daily life is made up of separate parts of a system we can only grasp fragments of, and maybe his most authentic depiction of mid-60s California counterculture and social tension, seeing as this was written in the middle of that era in real-time. Bizarre and thrilling, comic and amusing, and "The Courier's Tragedy" chapter is such a fucking neat device and setpiece that he's never replicated elsewhere and it alone makes the book worth reading. After all my experience with his work I would definitely still recommend newcomers to start here.

so imagine you're browsing through a bookstore on a lazy saturday afternoon.

you stop in the pynchon section, and there, out of the corner of your eye, you see this *guy* and he's checking you out. you think, wow! this is one for the movies! does this actually happen? (this is a sexually oriented biased review, sorry)

you proceed to chat, laughing at the length of gravity's rainbow. and you go next door with your new books to grab a cup of coffee, which turns into dinner, whuch turns in to crepes at this great little shop, which turns into a long walk, which turns into a bottle of syrah in your living room over twelve hours later.

and you're so compelled. the conversation is amazing, he's SO dynamic, he tells good stories even though it has the tendency to be stream of consciousness, he's convoluted and mysterious and you never want this night to end. he makes random allusions that you always pretend to recognize but don't really understand. he draws random doodles on scraps of paper, napkins, bathroom walls, foreheads of strangers, anywhere he can get his point across. you can't get out of your mind how brilliant this guy must be and how lucky you are to have him, in all his overeducated and hypnotic glory, sitting on your couch.

and with all the wine in your head, the evening takes a turn for the intimate. it gets a much heavier that you would ever expect for a first encounter like this, especially because you just met this guy (scandalous!!!) but you feel so wrapped up in his world that you just go along with it and enjoy. and trust me, you do enjoy it. and right as your about to come to the full, uh, realization of your enjoyment, he says, "oh god!" and stops and looks at you awkwardly. and you recognize at that moment that the enjoyment is um, bust, and you will never have that full realization.

that's what reading this book is like. but trust me, the encounter is well worth it.

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-

Simply, the most seminal work in Postmodern fiction.
Video-review: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jssAT...

Τελικά η πρώτη επαφή με τον κο. Πίντσον ήταν αρκετά περίεργη.

Το συγκεκριμένο βιβλίο είναι ένας δαιδαλώδης και χαοτικός λαβύρινθος και ο συγγραφέας ουσιαστικά σου κλείνει το μάτι πονηρά, προκαλώντας σε να μπεις μέσα και αν έχεις κουράγιο και αντοχή να βγεις...
Η υπόθεση δεν είναι κάτι το συνταρακτικό. Μια μικροαστή γυναίκα με το συμβολικό όνομα Οιδίπα, λαμβάνει μια εντολή από ένα δικηγορικό γραφείο για να εκτελέσει την διαθήκη ενός πρώην εραστή της, Προσπαθώντας λοιπόν να εκτελέσει την μεταθανάτια επιθυμία του πρώην φίλου της, θα πέσει πάνω στο Τρύστερο / Τρίστερο, ένα παράνομο ταχυδρομικό δίκτυο που λειτουργούσε αθέατο για πάνω από 4 αιώνες. Κάπου εκεί η Οιδίπα θα αρχίσει να αμφιβάλει για το τι είναι πραγματικό ενώ παράλληλα θα αρχίσει να μεταμορφώνεται από μικροαστή νοικοκυρά σε δαιμόνια ντετέκτιβ!
Μέχρι εδώ όλα καλά.
Μυστήριο, ίντριγκες, συνωμοσίες, κινηματογράφος, μουσική και αλληγορίες.
Όμως ο Πίντσον το παρακάνει στο θέμα της πληροφορίας. Βομβαρδίζει τον αναγνώστη συνεχώς και από παντού, με μια σχεδόν επιδειξιομανία η οποία για μένα ήταν κουραστική και αντί να δώσει βάθος στους χαρακτήρες του, τους μετέτρεπε σε χάρτινους ήρωες που περιμένουν την εντολή του μεγάλου ενορχηστρωτή για να κάνουν έστω και ένα βήμα. Όλο αυτό μοιάζει τόσο επιτηδευμένο που ειδικά όταν μπλέκει μέσα και η φυσικοχημεία εκεί πλέον από λογοτεχνικό κείμενο μοιάζει με διατριβή μέτριου φοιτητή.
Επίσης ο συγγραφέας είναι εγκλωβισμένος στον αμερικάνικο τρόπο ζωής και θεωρώ πως εκεί το, κατά τα άλλα αξιόλογο έργο του, χάνει την οικουμενικότητα ενός αριστουργήματος.

Παρόλα αυτά δεν μπορώ να αγνοήσω πόσο πολύ σταθερός είναι στα πιστεύω του. Είναι ενάντια στον καταναλωτισμό, είναι αντικομφορμιστής και πάντα με τον αδύναμο και τον κατατρεγμένο. Όλα αυτά φαίνονται σε κάθε του λέξη ( από όσες κατάλαβα δλδ) και σε κάθε χαρακτήρα του.

Ο μεταμοντέρνος τρόπος γραφής του δεν ήταν ενοχλητικός. Δύσκολος ναι, όχι όμως ενοχλητικός. Το αντίθετο θα έλεγα. Μάλλον διασκεδαστικός.
Εν τέλει δεν ήταν ένα κακό βιβλίο.
Όμως θα αργήσω (πολυυυυ) να ξαναπιάσω κάτι από τον συγκεκριμένο συγγραφέα.

Κάπου στο 3/5 και ίσως κάποια στιγμή να υπάρξει και μια εκθετική αύξηση στα αστεράκια σε μια πιθανή συνάρτηση όπου στον άξονα των Χ θα βρίσκεται ο χρόνος και στον άξονα του Υ η αναγνωστική μου αντοχή (έτσι για να είμαι και κοντά στο πνεύμα του συγγραφέα :)))

ΥΓ1: Ευτυχώς που ξεκίνησα με αυτό και δεν πήρα κανένα από τα τούβλα του να κλαίω τα χρήματά μου.
ΥΓ2: Το δυσνόητο δεν είναι απαραίτητα ποιοτικό ούτε καλό. Καιρός να ξεπεράσουμε τέτοιες γενικεύσεις.
ΥΓ3: Χιούμορ δεν βρήκα μέσα στο βιβλίο. Πιο πολύ γελούσα σκεπτόμενος τον κο. Πίντσον να παρακολουθεί από κάπου αόρατος εμάς τους αναγνώστες του και να γελάει ή να απορεί με τις διαστάσεις που πήραν τα έργα του.

Y'know I feel sorry for Pynchon. He's gained a reputation as a 'difficult writer'. This problem plagues Faulkner as well. People go into Pynchon's and Faulkner's novels and quickly realise that things happen very differently in here and thus, unnerved by the shock of the new, hastily retreat. It's a pity. My best advice for reading Pynchon? Stop trying to understand everything. If a passage, or a page, or hell, even a whole chapter doesn't make any sense, don't bother yourself over it. Just move on. The only person who's ever fully understood a Pynchon novel is Pynchon.

There's a couple of ways to read The Crying of Lot 49. You can read it as a mystery novel, you can read it as a meditation on 1960s post-war America (à la Breakfast of Champions) and you can also read it as a great satire on the postmodernist novel. I read it as the latter. If you stand back from this novel and try to see it as Pynchon essentially taking the piss out of all the tropes and plots and characters often found in postmodernist literature, then I think it starts making the most sense.

The novel follows Oedipa Maas who, after discovering a strange trumpet-like symbol on the wall of a bathroom, goes on an incredibly convoluted and complex journey to unmask the symbol's true meaning. Despite the novel's brevity (only 142 pages), Pynchon's trademark dense but intricate prose turns what is essentially a long short story into a fully-fledged novel, packed with a vast cast of characters and an equal amount of plots.

Pynchon has a lot of fun with The Crying of Lot 49. You can almost hear him sniggering as he types out names such as Genghis Cohen and Dr. Hilarius and Mike Fallopian. He isn't exactly being subtle about the inherent ridiculousness of this novel. His comical names are mirrored in the novel's many comic moments.

A stand-out scene from early on in the novel describes Oedipa's attempt to glean answers from the lawyer, Metzger. He suggests that for every question she asks she must take off an item of clothing. Oedipa excuses herself to use the bathroom, where she proceeds in donning every item of clothing she can find. She then traipses back into Metzger's office looking like, as Pynchon brilliantly puts it, 'a beach ball with feet'.

There are innumerable scenes like that in Lot 49. However, whilst this is a fantastic comical satire, I found myself somewhat longing for more. The narrative is incredibly episodic. Oedipa trundles along from scene to scene, meeting a new character at every stop and unlocking a small part of the novel's greater mystery, like a sort of postmodernist Canterbury Tales. Pynchon also just adores digression, which I know is something of his trademark, but when the novel is 142 pages long, you'd think that he would have reigned it in slightly.

Overall I found The Crying of Lot 49 to be a fun satirical romp. This novel is often suggested as a good starting place for Pynchon virgins, mainly due to its brevity. And I think that's fairly solid advice. Read it whichever way you want to, or even try to find a new angle to approach it from. But most importantly, have fun, that's what Pynchon would want.

"Shall I project a world?" -Oedipa Maas

You need to get past the names thing and the fact that it is very hard to care about an underground postal service. This is a book that transcends its socio-historical matrix, at least in the realm of the intellect, even if the humour does not raise a chuckle, the patterns of language consult with the basal ganglia. So, where to begin? Our W.A.S.T.E. of time may recall an image. The image not of a letter purloined, but of an entire postal system that is merely attemptedly purloined for not just the course of the book, for the course of the history of the postal service via the history projected by the book. And since we know that "a letter always arrives at its destination," we have here now the exception which both proves and disproves the law of the excluded middle: either Trystero exists or not, but if he doesn't then he has to. Or it just doesn't matter because you've gotten up off your ass and are committed to missing your next tupperware party in favor of stagger-gaiting your way across golden campuses that are jumping at times that they shouldn't and boozing through lounges where no one is in search of love. And you've never been more alive or full of suffering.

If you don't know what I'm talking about here, I don't blame you. The key reference here is Lacan's Seminar on Edgar Allen Poe's "The Purloined Letter," and Derrida's deconstruction in "The Purveyor of Truth." Good, challenging reads both.

The relevancy here is that Lacan uses Poe's story, wherein we never find out that which is written as a vehicle for explaining his method of analysis. He calls the letter pure signifier (without signified). Derrida gets ruffled by this and replies with a deconstruction of Lacan's seminar text, where he points out a few important limitations to Lacan's reading, (i.e. that we damn-well can infer most of the meaning of the letter from the story without ever actually reading the letter) which may not completely apply to Lacan's text depending on your interpretation of both Lacan and/or Derrida. Huh? Well, just like Pynchon's names seem completely stupid and loaded with symbolic meaning in a way that is obvious, they also resist that same interpretation with their stupidity. Who wants to search for symbolic meaning in names that are so ham-handed (e.g. Mike Fallopian, Mucho Maas, etc.)? Not this guy. But as those names seem so pre-loaded with meaning, aren't all names already associated with same? Aren't they big set-ups for self-fulfilling prophesies or for refusal to assign meaning to arbitrary signifiers? Pure Signifiers with no signifieds? And don't "we" as selves really feel ourselves to be the precise opposite, Pure Signifieds?

Pynchon's work is rife with such recursive iterations and excluded middles. If language is already pre-loaded with meanings then the novel itself is impossibly alienated from the real of real life. We are always already living life mediated through language. Syntax always precedes semantics.

Pynchon invited us to deconstruct a novel that so reeks of constructedness and in our unraveling we come away with nothing. The process of a reader reading the book parallels Oepida's search. But it is that glory of formalism where the undeterred reader taps his aesthetic draught. And you'd never think there could be so much foam but so much body and depth in clauses that Pynchon lays down freshly, bringing the roiling stuff of life to the surface. A string of signifiers that I'm glad were strung.

http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1...

3.9/5 (because the enjoyment I found to be mostly intellectual, though I could relate to the search for patterns, Baader-Meinhof effect jazz daguerreotype)