Quotes About Thomas Pynchon

But authorship is not to be denied. Not even if you are Thomas Pynchon and stonewall all attempts to establish your actual existence. My own feeling is that Pynchon does not exist, and neither do the last five hundred pages of Gravity's Rainbow, but there is no question whatsoever that Thomas Pynchon is an author.

All investigations of Time, however sophisticated or abstract, have at their true base the human fear of mortality.

You know what a miracle is. Not what Bakunin said. But another world's intrusion into this one. Most of the time we coexist peacefully, but when we do touch there's cataclysm.

In their brief time together Slothrop forms the impression that this octopus is not in good mental health, though where's his basis for comparing?

Stencil had called from a Hungarian coffee shop on York Avenue known as Hungarian Coffee Shop

A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.

The act of metaphor then was a thrust at truth and a lie, depending where you were: inside, safe, or outside, lost.

He is suddenly, dodderer and ass, taken by an ache in his skin, a simple love for them both that asks nothing but their safety, and he'll always manage to describe as something else--'concern,' you know, 'fondness...

Zoyd was out of smokes.

On the book Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me) Coming on like the Hallelujah Chorus done by 200 kazoo players with perfect pitch. Hilarious, chilling, sexy, profound, maniacal, beautiful and outrageous all at the same time.

His five feet three rested angular on the folding chair, a body small, well-wrought and somehow precious, as if it were the forgotten creation of any goldsmith—even Cellini—shrouded now in dark serge and waiting to be put up for auction.

I don't do lunch. Corrupt artifact of late capitalism. Breakfast maybe?

One thing he had to give her credit for, she'd never called it a Relationship. What is it then, hey, he'd asked once. A secret, with her small child's smile, which like Rodgers and Hammerstein in 3/4 time rendered Profane fluttery and gelatinous.

Oedipa stood in the living room, stared at by the greenish dead eye of the TV tube, spoke the name of God, tried to feel as drunk as possible. But this did not work.

Doc went automotively groping in this weirdness east on Olympic, trying not to flinch at what came popping up out of the gloom in the way of city buses and pedestrians in altered states of consciousness.

She poured herself half a tumbler of Jack Daniels (the Paranoids having left them a fresh bottle the evening before) and called the L.A. library.

The MMPI was developed about 1943. In the very heart of the war.....All the MMPI appears to test for is whether a man will be a good or bad soldier

what we were doing out in that Country together was brave, scientifick beyond my understanding, and ultimately meaningless

Aitisi nai poroja," replied Veikko, a pleasantry long grown routine, meaning, "Your mother fucks reindeer.

They went to lunch. Roseman tried to play footsie with her under the table. She was wearing boots, and couldn't feel much of anything. So, insulated, she decided not to make any fuss.

the figure dropped like an acid tab into the mouth of Time.

Listen, Hilarius said after awhile, have I seemed to you a good enough Freudian? Have I ever deviated seriously? You made faces now and then, said Oedipa, but that's minor.

Piss runneth downhill, and Pay-Day is Saturday, -now you're a qualified Fence-runner.