Somewhere between Lewis Carroll's Alice and Allen Ginsberg's Howl lies Pynchon's 1966 novel The Crying of Lot 49. Part brilliance personified and part stream of consciousness, this novel is out of the ordinary. It is a parody of modern American life and filled with conspiracies and paranoia. It takes our heroine Oedipa Maas down the rabbit hole and where she will end up we barely know. The plot matters but little. Much more important is her journey into selfhood, losing contact with her real life as she ventures outside reality and stares at the fabric of the universe. Forty years since the first time I read this and I still can't say I have much insight into what Pynchon wanted the reader to discover.

"Η συλλογή των 49 στο σφυρί" ή αλλιώς ο πρόγονος του "Εκκρεμές του Φουκώ".

Στον Πίντσον δεν τα καταλαβαίνεις ποτέ όλα, ή μάλλον δεν χρειάζεται να τα καταλάβεις ποτέ όλα. Υπάρχουν τόσες πολλές πληροφορίες που από μόνες τους στήνουν ένα σκηνικό αντάξιο της οπτικής επαφής από μια ταινία. Είναι ο καλύτερος στο να βρίσκει πολύ εξειδικευμένες πληροφορίες σε τομείς όπως η φυσική, άλλωστε εντροπία λέγεται η τεχνική που χρησιμοποιεί, όπως αναφέρει ο Δημηρούλης, ο μεταφραστής. στην πολύ ενδιαφέρουσα εισαγωγή του. Πολλές από αυτές τις πληροφορίες δεν χρειάζονται πουθενά πλην όμως αποτελούν αναπόσπαστο στοιχείο του συνολικού σκηνικού.

Συνηθίζει να χρησιμοποιεί συμβολισμούς. Η πρωταγωνίστρια έχει το ασυνήθιστο όνομα Οιδίπα, σαν τον Οιδίποδα απέναντι στην Σφίγγα προσπαθώντας να λύσει το μυστήριο στο οποίο έχει περιέλθει ή έτσι νομίζει.

Έχοντας διαβάσει πριν απ' αυτό το "Ενάντια στη μέρα" το οποίο γράφτηκε 40 χρόνια μετά (2006), έχω να πω ότι ο Πίντσον από τα πρώτα του γραπτά βρισκόταν σ' αυτό το ψηλό επίπεδο. Σίγουρα μου φάνηκε πιο εύκολο αυτό το βιβλίο, γιατί ήμουν πιο υποψιασμένος για το τι θα συναντήσω, το τελειώνω όμως εξίσου γοητευμένος με την πρώτη φορά. Αποτελεί μια πολύ ιδιαίτερη κατηγορία και μας θυμίζει γιατί η λογοτεχνία πρέπει να είναι απαιτητική και να μας εξιτάρει.

Υ.Γ. Πολύ ενδιαφέρουσα είναι η κριτική του Harold Bloom (ίσως ο κορυφαίος κριτικός λογοτεχνίας) στο "Πως και γιατί διαβάζουμε", που το συμπεριλαμβάνει ανάμεσα σε τεράστια έργα των Φώκνερ, Μέλβιλ, Προυστ, Ντίκενς, Μακάρθυ, Μαν κτλ.

Q: Name an action you can take to really piss off a feminist mathematician who loves/also studied physics.
A: Write a rabidly misogynistic, inanely pretentious novel supposedly illustrating/embodying mathematical/physical "paradoxes." (*, **)

*Not true paradoxes, as there is no such thing in physics/math. I will get to all the math and science after the feminist rant.

**I will admit that the latter part of my assessment is based more on my contempt for Pynchon re: the former complaint. Had he demonstrated mere sexism, I probably would have rated this at a 4 or so, because, begrudgingly, yes, I know, Pynchon is pretty brilliant and well, who doesn't love a story about information theory/ thermodynamics & the Big Ideas of mathematics/physics? BUT:

// start rant
BUT I simply don't care how clever Pynchon thinks he is. This is the most misogynistic piece of crap I've ever read in my life, and I am left trembling mad, seriously horrified, utterly disgusted, and 100% turned off to whatever else Pynchon tried to do in this novel.

On a spectrum of dis/respecting women, here's where Pynchon lies (or at least, this particular work of his):
n  n

How do I even begin? There's too much to cover, but let's start with the clueless, idiotic woman, Oedipa, wandering aimlessly through a man's world. (There are no other named women in this book; the handful of instances other women appear can be counted on one hand; and they are always "the anonymous girl in a subservient position", like the admin assistant).

n  "Somehow, Oedipa got lost. One minute, she was gazing at a mockup of a space capsule, safely surrounded by old, somnolent men; the next, alone in a great, fluorescent murmur of office activity. As far as she could see in every direction it was white or pastel: men's shirts, papers, drawing boards. All she could think of was to put on her shades for all this light, and to wait for somebody to rescue her" (p. 66 in the Harper Perennial 2006 edition)n

Oedipa is an insecure, "easy" (his word, not mine) woman who is constantly looking for affirmation from men. She uses her sex to her advantage ("she rested her shades on her nose and batted her eyelashes, figuring to coquette her way" [into something], p. 69). She can be "tricked" into having sex with men (p. 30). She is a woman who "has no apparatus except gut fear and female cunning... she may fall back on superstition, or take up a useful hobby like embroidery, or go mad, or marry a disk jokey" (p. 12). She is accused of acting like a "lib, overeducated broad with the soft heads and bleeding hearts" (p. 59).

Worse, men are not to be held accountable for their violation of women. When Oedipa sits down between two men at a meeting, for example, their hands, "alternately (as if their owners were asleep and the moled, freckled hands out roaming dream-scapes) kept falling onto her thighs (p. 65, because, you know, men's hands just do that sometimes).... Oh yeah, and that guy who "tricked" Oedipa into sex? Well, it's ok because she liked it and wants to keep doing it, just as she wants to continue relying on his support on her quest.

Who is Pynchon kidding? Satire, MY ASS. You DON'T get to satire women into submissive, subservient roles of clueless, insecure, emotional messes who stumble through life while being used and molested by men. I mean, you can, but don't expect this woman to take you seriously on any other matter.

I was so aghast at what I was reading that I did a bit of research into Pynchon's life and it seems he was not a rabid right-winger (he's a postmodernist, after all!). Also, he wrote this in the 60s - for God's sake, the second wave of feminism was well underway! The Second Sex for example, appeared in 1949. Plus: only the entire raison d'etre of the post-modern, deconstructionist movement was to call into question ingrained layers of social constructs that we take for granted, but that are indeed, not inherent in our "nature", but just a product of how we've come to think about things given our historical past and its promulgation. So, Pynchon gets NO FREE PASS for the "age" he was writing in (+ misogyny doesn't ever get a pass from me, not even given historical context; sexism, well, that almost can't be avoided when going some time back).

As a last point that may go in Pynchon's favor someday, if I ever reconsider his work, is that, despite the ways in which he portrays Oedipa, she is the main character, possibly "heroine" of this novel, and this is a satire. At this moment, however, I can not see how Pyncheon's misogyny can be excused as satire alone, because it's clear he wasn't truly conscious of his treatment of women as a whole in writing The Crying of Lot 49.

// end rant

Science/Thermo & Math/Information Theory
The Crying of Lot 49 attempts a metaphorical deconstruction of the concept of dis/order, brought into focus through its mathematical and thermodynamic-science incarnations. Some preliminary discussions:

Science: Most of us probably remember at least the term "entropy" from high-school physics - basically thermodynamic laws dictate that the entropy of a physical system increases over time (i.e. disorder increases. For example, if you put a bunch of multi-colored balls in a box, they tend to get mixed up over time; they do not tend to sort themselves by color. Maxwell, Plank et all ran experiments like this but on particles).

Math: In info theory (which is distinct from physics because it refers to a purely abstract field of "information"), another measure of entropy is defined, and it turns out its mathematical equation is virtually the same as that used by physicists (who would have thought, the concepts we come up to mathematically describe abstract situations are based on our real world experiences?). Theoretically information entropy measures the probability that we can predict the outcome. And, the more we know, it turns out, the less we can predict the outcome, because there's so many more possibilities to take into consideration ("The more you know, the more you realize you don't know" type of thing).

Maxwell's Demon is a supposed paradox about how a decrease in entropy/disorder could occur (no paradoxes exist in science or math; all is clear once one has adequate insight and knowledge). Theoretically, the thought experiment goes, we could have an invisible demon sitting there opening and closing a flap and thus magically guiding all red balls to one side of the box, and all blue balls to the other. In this case, disorder would decrease. Supposedly. Of course, it's quite easy to refute this paradox the moment you realize that the demon could not possibly exist as described, because a pure information decider would need to be embodied in some physical way. The moment you MAKE this demon out of physical materials, the moment this demon becomes incarnate, it's clear that the demon is part of the system and thus, while the disorder of the BOX might decrease, the laws of entropy are NOT violated by the NET system, including the demon.

---

I credit Pynchon for creatively satirizing this futile quest for ultimate Order/Truth. The ethos of modernity has been the search for Order/Absolute Truth - only, we have realized, in all fields, that the more we know, and the more we try to organize things, the more they slip out from under out control as net systems becomes increasingly chaotic. Just look at particle physics - in seeking to describe the ultimate nature of reality, physicists cooked up a veritable "zoo" of particles (their word, not mine), ever more ridiculous in its complexity (so much for the "Grand Unified Theory", which I consider a theoretically impossible quest, because of the laws of entropy).

There's a lot to be examined here, but it's been done already (many other times, too but that's a good place to start), and I'm not in the mood to be kind. Perhaps I will update someday (the probability decreasing over time, of course, consistent with the laws of entropy).

"So, what do you think it's about?" she asked, as she took a preliminary sip from her cocktail. "Entropy, to start with," he replied. "If only he'd known the Holographic Principle. It follows from thermodynamic calculations that the information content of a black hole is proportional to the square of its radius, not the cube, and the Universe can reasonably be thought of as a black hole. Hence all its information is really on its surface, and the interior is a low-energy illusion. Wouldn't you say that the book is rather like that too?"

"Mm-hm," she said, wondering if she should make a pun about quantum gravity and rainbows, but thinking better of it. "And then the deficiencies of the Container Metaphor of Communication," he continued. "On the naïve view, information is put into a container, namely the words, delivered to the addressee by the US mailman, and opened to obtain the meaning. But real communication is more informal. It's pieces of courier post from an unknown sender that arrive in turn, in taxis."

"Thurn and Taxis?" she interrupted. He looked at her for a moment.

"We could have sex," he added, in a tone midway between an afterthought, a question and a declaration of religious belief. She sighed, and undid the top two buttons of her blouse; he noticed they had a hard-edged quality different from the lower ones. A gold pendant, surprised by the sudden daylight and unsuccessfully attempting to hide between her breasts, spelled out the W.A.S.T.E. symbol. He examined it carefully, then hoisted the focus of his attention back towards her face. She made a complicated gesture, simultaneously expressing her agreement with the essential reasonableness of his request and the impossibility of acquiescing, then did up her blouse again.

"I think another martini would be useful," she said. "But this time, I want to see how you pit the olives. How you extract the kernel, as it were." She followed his hands as they cooperated in this task, which she had always felt beyond her. The left hand steadied the olive between thumb and forefinger, while the right one held the knife, exerting a steady downward pressure. The agate-coloured flesh split neatly apart, revealing the unwanted stone, which the right hand then discarded.

"Now let me try," she said, but she knew that, as usual, it would not work. Somehow, she was holding it in the wrong way; she only managed to inflict a flesh wound, rather than his clean kill. She relinquished the knife, and allowed him to do the remaining olives.

At least she had her martini, even if its secret still eluded her.

So, here we have The Da Vinci Code as written by someone with self-awareness. And if that made you want to read this, you shouldn't. I liked this! I thought it was fun, and funny. I have only the barest sense of what it's about.

I get the conspiracy, I think. We have an underground, rebel mail system. As best I can figure, we're talking about protest here: the way the counterculture communicates and has always communicated, quietly, throughout history. I kept thinking about Howard Zinn as I was reading about this: he was writing the same book, except Zinn (years later) was actually writing it.

I was mystified about the names, though. They must mean something! One doesn't name one's protagonist after Oedipus for nothing. When you reference Oedipus, you mean someone who fucked his mom and killed his dad. Here the gender roles are reversed, so...okay, if we take Inverarity as her father figure, she did fuck him. I see no mother figure here, though - unless it's herself; at various times she plays mother, student, granddaughter. She inhabits different roles as they suit her investigation. But she certainly doesn't kill herself. So...I've confused myself.

And while we're at it, why name the stamp collector Genghis Cohen, a Jewish Genghis Khan? There's clearly a subtheme about Jews here (see: her shrink), but I can't put all that together either.

Cryng is obsessed with connections. As Amy Hungerford showed me, Oedipa is able to connect with different people in different ways. I noticed the recurrence of the word "circuit," as in mental circuits, or the way a city at night resembles a circuit board. Beautiful image, Pynchon.

And there are some wonderful images here. "Windows gagged each with its air conditioner" is one I underlined. What a terrific thing to say.

It's about faith, too: "Are you there, little fellow, Oedipa asked the Demon, or is Nefastis putting me on. Unless a piston moved, she'd never know." If you haven't read the book you don't know what the scene is, but you might get the idea. Such is faith: unless a piston moves, you never know.

It loses steam after the hallucinatory all-nighter she pulls around 2/3 through, for me. She seems to grow afraid of the mystery, and I grow bored because where are my answers? It's fine for Pynchon to leave the mystery bidder unidentified - this is a book about mystery and it's cool to end on one - but the bit leading up to that final unreveal is unsatisfying from a reading point of view; it feels like Pynchon lost interest, to me. He sets up these wonderful threads, and I don't expect him to pull them together, but I expect to feel that there's a pull, and I didn't.

It's a cool book, though. Fun to read; complicated enough to write a thesis about; there's even a truly weird sex scene. I dig it, man.

“Be silent or let thy words be worth more than silence.”

― Pythagoras

There are days when you feel you don't have much to say on anything...muteness prevails...

Er...
you really have to read it for yourself...
Abruptly change the subject...
A literary precursor to The big Lebowski but with more about the postal systems of renaissance Europe...
The figure of the detective or private investigator merges with the quest tradition, at the end do we find C.G. Jung's Synchronicity? An intricate and cunning plot from beyond the grave? Nothing? Mid sixties American picaresque adventure? It you read it yourself you can make your own mind up, or not.
The investigator can move through the sundered orders of society, passing among criminals, the grotesques, the merely insane, the flotsam and jetsam of other civilisations, in this book too, communing with the underworld as the executrix of a will, leading character Mrs Oedipa Maas is typical, in that her name suggests meanings and associations ("I dreamt of Freud, what does it mean?") but maybe the cigar is just a cigar? Of course cigars, smoking, cigarettes, filters - one can't stray far from the allusions and loose threads that combine to form this...novelette.

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.

Captures the psychedelic experience perfectly. Not with colorful descriptions of hallucinations or bright fractals, but rather by exploring a fleeting feeling that the world is deeply, incomprehensibly interconnected and that the act of comparison (or metaphor in Pynchon’s writing) is the only way we can really start to understand what exists outside of us.

Σιγή...
δεν ήθελα να τελειώσει, όχι για να μάθω κάτι περισσότερο αλλά γιατί το κομφούζιο γράψιμο θα μου λείψει. Είναι σαν τη ζωή. Αν κοιτάξεις το χώμα, θα δεις ένα έντομο να περπατάει στο έδαφος, μετά ελευθερώνοντας τη σκηνή από την εστίαση σου, παρατηρείς τον αέρα να κινεί τα φύλλα, τα κορδόνια στα παπούτσια κάποιου που διασχίζει την απέναντι γωνία. Αυτά και άλλα ήταν εκεί ταυτόχρονα με το έντομο, συνηθίζεις όμως με τάξη να στοχεύεις ένα πράγμα τη φορά, όλα όμως κι εσύ ακόμα γίνονται μαζί, σαν το μπλέντερ που κομματιάζει τα σκληρά φρούτα και πολτοποιεί τα μαλακά, μαζικά. Έτσι είναι η γραφή του Πύντσον. Είναι ακόμα σαν το αγαπημένο μου παιχνίδι στα μαθηματικά: τις πεπλεγμένες συναρτήσεις.

Κλειδιά υπάρχουν διάσπαρτα σε όλες τις σελίδες. Το θέμα είναι ποιο ορίζεται ως το κιβώτιο που πρέπει να δοκιμάσουμε να ξεκλειδώσουμε;

Σ' ένα κόσμο που έχουμε παραδοθεί στο να μας κάνουν ο,τι θέλουν, να μας λεν πως η ψήφος μας δεν έχει αξία, η γνώμη μας είναι λίγη, η φωνή μας σιγανή, να μας αρνούνται τη δύναμη από τις προσπάθειες ενός ανθρώπου που θα δώσουν ώθηση σε άλλους γιατί οι εταιρίες μπορούν περισσότερα, να μας κλέβουν το λόγο, να ακούν τα χαμόγελα μας, να πατροναρουν τις σκέψεις μας, παραδοθηκαμε στο sms, στο viber, στο μεσεντζερ.... Κι αν υπήρχε ένας άλλος τρόπος να μιλάμε όχι για να κάνουμε κάτι κακό αλλά επειδή το δικαιούμαστε να στερούμε το μονοπώλιο σ' αυτούς που το πααχωρήσαμε, μία τέτοια ελευθερία δε θα άξιζε πολλά; Αν το δεδομένο γινόταν πραγματικό δεδομένο. Δεδομένο ελευθερίας.

21.06.17, μια ακόμη προσέγγιση: Μιλάει για την ελευθερία της βούλησης και την πατροναρισμένη εκδοχή της ελευθεριότητας της βούλησης. Μπορείς να κάνεις ό,τι διάολο επιθυμήσεις, αλλά μόνο αγνοώντας τα αόρατα νήματα των παγίδων. Απ' τη στιγμή που τα αντιλαμβάνεσαι, το αλάτι και το κίμινο δεν αρκούν στο πιάτο. Δεν αλλάζει η γεύση κι ας τρως πάστα κρέμα μπισκότο, ή μακαρονάδα με κιμά, παρά τη στιγμή που θα κινηθείς εξουθενώνοντας μέσα σου την κλισεδιά για τους τελικούς στόχους. Δεν υπάρχουν τελικοί στόχοι γιατί μόλις αναγνωριστούν φαίνεται πως δε διαφέρουν σε τίποτα απ' όσα ήδη ξέρεις και η κορύφωση είναι τζούφια. Πρόκειται για όλη αυτή την αμηχανία, τον εκνευρισμό, το ανασήκωμα των ώμων, την παραίτηση σε κάθε στροφή που μοιάζει με την προηγούμενη. Και τι μένει; Τί σου λέει ο έρημος που δε σου είπαν άλλοι; Με το δικό του ιδιαίτερο τρόπο σου λέει την άλλη γνωστή κλισεδιά για τη διαδρομή. Το πως φτάνεις κάπου, ο συνδυασμοί, οι έλξεις κι οι απωθήσεις, οι άνθρωποι που συναντάς και τα στοιχεία που επιλέγουν να σου αποκαλύψουν για τον εαυτό τους στην παρούσα φάση δημιουργούν αυτό το ενιαίο σώμα που κάθε στιγμή όμως αποτελείται από μόρια, συγκρατούμενα αλλά μόρια. Η ενότητα της παλάμης σου, του ψωμιού, του κορδονιού είναι σημειακές, φαινομενικές με τα συν και τα πλην που οδηγούν σε αυτό ακριβώς το αποτέλεσμα και κανένα άλλο.

შარშან, დეკემბრის 22-ში, ჩელენჯის დახურვამდე რამდენიმე წიგნიღა მაკლდა, როდესაც რატომღაც ამ წიგნს მოვკიდე ხელი და როდის დავასრულე თქვენ თავადაც ხედავთ.
ერთ-ერთი ყველაზე ცუდი წიგნია რაც წამიკითხავს. სულ სხვა მოლოდინებით შევხვდი მიუხედავად იმისა, რომ მრავალი უარყოფითი პოზიცია მქონდა მოსმენილი. როგორც გავიგე საკუთრივ პინჩონის უარესს წიგნს ვეღარასდროს ვთარგმნითო, მაგრამ ამ ავტორს მეორე შანსს ალბათ არ მივცემ (არ ვიცი).
წიგნის სიუჟეტში არცერთი მომენტი არაა, რომელიც მომეწონა, ჩამითრია ან რაიმე მსგავსი.
ტიპმა რაღაც ანდერძი მიიღო და მერე რაღაც სიმბოლო ნახა ტუალეტში და ჰოპ-ჰოპ დეტექტივი, ღალატი, ცხოვრების აზრი, ტყუილი, თეორია, სუციდი, ის, ეს :დ რავიცი, ძალიან, ძალიან ცუდი წიგნია, ან მე გამოვდექი ძალიან შეუსაბამო მკითხველი (თუმცა ეჭვი მეპარება ამ უკანასკნელში!!!)

n  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: and 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 disc jockey. If the tower is everywhere and the knight of deliverance no proof against its magic, what else?n

Dropping the ball of 50% virgin wool 50% yak, Karensky Poshlust watched it roll out through the heavy glass doors to the garden to be snatched immediately by a passing magpie who flew with it to the top of the larch tree next door. Squirrels took up the merry game and tossed it from larch to lilac, back down through the crumbling brown blossoms of the hydrangea, forming a pattern, which, when viewed from an upstairs window spelt AGVOURD, precisely the letters at present sitting on her rack in the game of scrabble she was playing with an acronym in a different time zone on a small hand-held device that now set up a plaintive bleating noise. The noise resembled the sound of the telephone so closely that Karensky's noise processing centre, a troubled being at the best of times, was fooled into spurring her to pick up the receiver and warily attend to the crackle and pop within. Memories of childhood breakfasts sent her reeling, but these were interrupted by the voice of her mother who immediately launched into a catalogue of her achievements that morning, leaving Karensky not the space of a breath to interrupt or join in any kind of two way communication. As she bent her ear to the monologue devoted to cleaning and cooking, her eye was caught by the name of the manufacturer of the telephone, embossed into the cradle beneath the usual resting position of the receiver, and thus invisible to the eye when the phone was not in use: AVGOURD. Now certain that a message was being relayed to her she opened up the search engine of her laptop and typed in AVGOURD. The results were disturbing: the Mini AV Gourd is a three piece magic massager stick for adult games.....