I admit to being a fake Pynchon fan. There. I’m out. I haven’t touched a book of his in six years. Truth. But then again, not every night is a single-malt night, or beer, take your pick.
The spine on my copy of Gravity’s Rainbow is broken and tattered. It’s chock full of post-its, and the random underlinings of someone constantly amused at an author that has EVERYTHING I’VE EVER WANTED. It’s not read serious, like English major serious. Shit man, I didn’t have any seriousness left when I approached that book, because I was just looking for a single straw to hold onto while this drunken fool was grasping along, looking for a light, either to inhale or illuminate the path ahead.
I’m not sure what it did for me, but at the end I arrived a bit lighter. Maybe it was the songs. Maybe it was the hot-air-balloon pie fight. Maybe it was knowing that even in this world of regimentation, and vast industrial slaughter something beautiful can be born.
So, now it’s Mason and Dixon. Time to nip the metaphysical-drizzle in the ass. I’ve tried this one three times. Let’s get obsessed.