Documente Academic
Documente Profesional
Documente Cultură
edited by
INGER H. DALSGAARD
Aarhus University
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
names: Dalsgaard, Inger H., editor.
title: Thomas Pynchon in context / edited by Inger H. Dalsgaard.
description: Cambridge, United Kingdom ; New York, NY : Cambridge University Press,
2018. | Includes bibliographical references and index.
identifiers: lccn 2019001093 | isbn 9781108497022 (hardback : alk. paper)
subjects: lcsh: Pynchon, Thomas – Criticism and interpretation.
classification: lcc ps3566.y55 z943 2019 | ddc 813/.54–dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019001093
isbn 978-1-108-49702-2 Hardback
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accurate or appropriate.
Contents
Introduction 1
Inger H. Dalsgaard
v
vi Contents
10 The Nineteenth Century 82
Paolo Simonetti
11 The Twentieth Century 89
Steven Weisenburger
12 The Twenty-First Century 97
Celia Wallhead
13 History and Metahistory 104
David Cowart
ix
x List of Contributors
ali chetwynd is Assistant Professor and Chair of English at the
American University of Iraq, Sulaimani. He works on antimimetic
fiction’s constructive argumentative capacities, and has published on
Pynchon, William Gaddis, Ben Jonson, and the philosophical antece-
dents of US postmodernism. With Georgios Maragos and Joanna Freer
he edited Thomas Pynchon, Sex, and Gender (2018), and he co-edits the
book reviews for Orbit: A Journal of American Literature.
samuel chase coale teaches American Literature and Culture at
Wheaton College in Massachusetts. His recent books include
The Entanglements of Nathaniel Hawthorne (2011) and Quirks of the
Quantum: Postmodernism and Contemporary American Fiction (2012).
He has recently lectured in Japan, Jordan, and Lebanon.
christopher k. coffman is a Senior Lecturer in Humanities at Boston
University. He is the author of Rewriting Early America: The Prenational
Past in Postmodern Literature (2019) and co-editor of William T. Vollmann:
A Critical Companion (2015) and Framing Films: Critical Perspectives on Film
History (2009). Among his other publications are chapters in McClintock
and Miller’s Pynchon’s California (2014) and Severs and Leise’s Pynchon’s
Against the Day: A Corrupted Pilgrim’s Guide (2011).
david cowart, Louise Fry Scudder Professor Emeritus at the University
of South Carolina, is the author of Thomas Pynchon: The Art of Allusion
(1980) and Thomas Pynchon and the Dark Passages of History (2015), as
well as other books on contemporary literature.
inger h. dalsgaard is Associate Professor of American Studies at Aarhus
University, Denmark. She is the editor of Thomas Pynchon in Context, the
co-editor of The Cambridge Companion to Thomas Pynchon (Cambridge
University Press, 2012), and the author of numerous essays on Pynchon.
simon de bourcier is the author of Pynchon and Relativity: Narrative Time
in Thomas Pynchon’s Later Novels, as well as articles on Pynchon, David
Foster Wallace, and Neal Stephenson. He has degrees from the University of
Cambridge, Anglia Ruskin University, and the University of East Anglia.
john dugdale is the author of Thomas Pynchon: Allusive Parables of
Power (1990). He writes about books and the media for the Guardian
and the Sunday Times.
nina engelhardt is the author of Modernism, Fiction and Mathematics
(2018) and several essays on mathematics and science in Pynchon’s work.
List of Contributors xi
After receiving her PhD from the University of Edinburgh, she held
research and teaching positions at the Institute for Advanced Studies in
the Humanities, Edinburgh, and the University of Cologne before
joining the Department of English Literatures at the University of
Stuttgart.
martin paul eve is Professor of Literature, Technology, and Publishing
at Birkbeck College, University of London. In addition to several books
and many articles, he is the author of Pynchon and Philosophy:
Wittgenstein, Foucault and Adorno (2014). He is also the chief editor of
Orbit: A Journal of American Literature.
joanna freer is Lecturer in American Literature at the University of
Exeter. She is the author of Thomas Pynchon and American
Counterculture (2014), editor of The New Pynchon Studies: Twenty-
First-Century Critical Revisions (2019), and co-editor of Thomas
Pynchon, Sex, and Gender (2018) and a “Pynchonomics” special issue
of the journal Textual Practice.
james gourley is Lecturer in English in the School of Humanities and
Communication Arts, and a member of the Writing and Society
Research Centre, Western Sydney University. He is the author of
Terrorism and Temporality in the Works of Thomas Pynchon and Don
DeLillo (2013).
michael harris is Professor of English and Chair of the English
Department at Central College (Pella, Iowa), and the author of
Outsiders and Insiders: Perspectives of Third World Culture in British
and Post-Colonial Fiction. He has published essays on Pynchon, Joseph
Conrad, J. M. Coetzee, Patrick White, Salman Rushdie, Edna O’Brien,
Ngũgῖ wa Thiong’o, and the jazz musician John Coltrane, among
others. In 1998–99, he served as Senior Fulbright Lecturer in
Tanzania, and in 2012–13 as a Senior Fulbright-Nehru Research
Fellow in India.
doug haynes is Senior Lecturer in American Literature and Visual
Culture and Head of American Studies at the University of
Sussex. His research interests are in modern American literature,
visual culture, and critical theory. He has a special interest in
Pynchon and has published frequently on his work, as well as on
many other writers and artists. He is currently writing a book on
black humor.
xii List of Contributors
luc herman teaches American literature and narrative theory at the
University of Antwerp. As a Pynchon specialist, he has co-edited (with
Inger H. Dalsgaard and Brian McHale) The Cambridge Companion to
Thomas Pynchon (Cambridge University Press, 2012) and co-authored
(with Steven Weisenburger) Gravity’s Rainbow, Domination, and
Freedom (2013). Along with John Krafft, he has written a set of
essays on the typescript of V. at the Harry Ransom library in Austin,
Texas.
elizabeth jane wall hinds is Professor of English at the State
University of New York, Brockport. She is editor of The Multiple
Worlds of Pynchon’s Mason & Dixon: Eighteenth-Century Contexts,
Postmodern Observations (2005) and author of Private Property: Charles
Brockden Brown and the Gendered Economics of Virtue (1997), along with
other works on Pynchon, the eighteenth century, and Critical Animal
Studies.
kathryn hume is author of Pynchon’s Mythography: An Approach to
Gravity’s Rainbow, as well as articles or parts of books on Gravity’s
Rainbow, Vineland, Mason & Dixon, Against the Day, and Inherent Vice.
Other authors she has written on include Kurt Vonnegut, Richard
Brautigan, Italo Calvino, H. G. Wells, Ishmael Reed, Salman
Rushdie, William Burroughs, Kathy Acker, William Kennedy, Robert
Coover, John Edgar Wideman, Gerald Vizenor, Richard Powers, and
Neil Gaiman. She is currently working on contemporary uses of
mythology.
tiina käkelä is a senior adviser in research services at the University of
Helsinki. After her thesis on the social role of death in Pynchon in 2007,
she has written several essays on Pynchon’s work, among which the most
recent are “Postmodern Ghosts and the Politics of Invisible Life” (2014)
and “‘This Land Is My Land, This Land Also Is My Land’: Real Estate
Narratives in Pynchon’s Fiction” (2019).
douglas keesey wrote his dissertation on Pynchon in 1988. His
Pynchon-related essays and reviews may be downloaded at digitalcom
mons.calpoly.edu. His publications also include books on Catherine
Breillat, Brian De Palma, Don DeLillo, Clint Eastwood, Peter
Greenaway, the Marx Brothers, Jack Nicholson, Chuck Palahniuk,
and Paul Verhoeven, as well as on erotic cinema, film noir, and twenty-
first-century horror films. He is a Professor of Film and Literature at
California Polytechnic State University.
List of Contributors xiii
david kipen is Lecturer at UCLA and critic-at-large for the LA Times.
Before that, he worked as Director of Literature for the National
Endowment for the Arts, where he midwifed the continuing one-city-
one-book initiative, the Big Read. He also writes for the New York Times
and other outlets. A translator of Cervantes’ The Dialogue of the Dogs,
he’s the author of both The Schreiber Theory: A Radical Rewrite of
American Film History (2006) and a proposal to write Pynchon’s
biography.
zofia kolbuszewska, Associate Professor in the Department of
English, Wrocław University, Poland, has published two books,
The Poetics of Chronotope in the Novels of Thomas Pynchon (2000) and
The Purloined Child: American Identity and Representations of Childhood
in American Literature 1851–2000 (2007), as well as articles on contem-
porary American literature and culture. She has edited a collection of
essays, Thomas Pynchon and the (De)vices of Global (Post)modernity
(2012), and is working on a project on Pynchon and the neo-baroque.
john m. krafft, Miami University Professor Emeritus, was a founder
and editor of the journal Pynchon Notes, which was published from 1979
to 2009. Recently he has collaborated with Luc Herman (University of
Antwerp) on a series of essays analyzing the evolution of Pynchon’s
V. from typescript to published novel.
christopher leise is Associate Professor of English at Whitman
College. Co-editor of William Gaddis, “The Last of Something”:
Critical Essays (2010) and Pynchon’s Against the Day: A Corrupted
Pilgrim’s Guide (2011), he is most recently the author of The Story upon
a Hill: The Puritan Myth in Contemporary American Fiction (2017).
scott mcclintock is Associate Professor of Arts and Humanities at
National University, San Diego, California. His publications include
Topologies of Fear in Contemporary Fiction: The Anxieties of Post-
Nationalism and Counter Terrorism (2015), and (co-edited with John
Miller), Pynchon’s California (2014), as well as articles in Comparative
Literature Studies, Clio: A Journal of Philosophy and History, and South
Asian Review. He lives in Big Bear City, California.
brian mchale is Arts and Humanities Distinguished Professor of
English at the Ohio State University. Co-founder of Ohio State’s
Project Narrative, he is also a founding member and former president
of the Association for the Study of the Arts of the Present (ASAP). He is
xiv List of Contributors
the author of four monographs on postmodern literature and culture,
and has co-edited four volumes, including The Cambridge Companion to
Thomas Pynchon (Cambridge University Press, 2012). He edits the
international journal Poetics Today.
deborah madsen is Professor of American Literature and Culture at the
University of Geneva, Switzerland. She is the author of
The Postmodernist Allegories of Thomas Pynchon (1989) and essays on
aspects of Pynchon’s work, including the legacy of the colonial Pynchon
family.
georgios maragos is an independent scholar from Athens, Greece. He
wrote his PhD at Panteion University, Athens, on networks of informa-
tion in the literary works of Pynchon. With Ali Chetwynd and Joanna
Freer he has co-edited Thomas Pynchon, Sex and Gender (2018).
john miller teaches literature and writing at National University in
Costa Mesa, California. He is co-editor, with Scott McClintock, of
Pynchon’s California (2014) and has published articles on a variety of
topics, including the early modern prose of Francis Bacon, Robert
Burton, and Izaak Walton; the fiction of J. R. R. Tolkien and
Pynchon; the science fiction short story; hyperfiction and online
pedagogy.
richard moss is a tutor at Durham University who teaches drama and
American fiction. He finished his thesis on Pynchon and theology in
2015. His current research interests are involved in postsecularism in
American fiction, and he is also writing on Pynchon and postmodern
notions of pornography.
katie muth teaches American literature at Durham University. She has
written on Kathy Acker’s experimentalism, Pynchon’s technical prose,
mid-century television writing, and politics and world literature. She is
the co-editor (with Lorna Burns) of the collection World Literature and
Dissent (forthcoming) and is researching a book about labor and the
postwar novel.
j. paul narkunas is Associate Professor of Literary Theory at John Jay
College of Criminal Justice, City University of New York (CUNY), and
has published on Pynchon and Margaret Atwood. His Reified Life:
Speculative Capital and the Ahuman Condition was published in 2018.
He is currently exploring how financialization, aided and abetted by
digital technologies, is instrumentalizing higher education in Edu-
List of Contributors xv
Futures: Private Equity, Philanthropy, and the Monetization of Higher
Education.
sascha pöhlmann is Professor of North American Literature and
Culture at the University of Konstanz, Germany. He is the author
of Pynchon’s Postnational Imagination (2010) and the editor of Against
the Grain: Reading Pynchon’s Counternarratives (2010). He is one of
the co-editors of the open access e-journal Orbit: A Journal of
American Literature, and has published essays on Pynchon’s works
in relation to Ludwig Wittgenstein, money, canonicity, and clothing,
among other things.
mark rohland is an administrator at Temple University in
Philadelphia. He has taught Pynchon at Temple and elsewhere, and
his published research focuses on children and families in literature. He
has worked as a professional academic advisor, and has given presenta-
tions on issues in the development of curricular awareness in college
students at conferences of the National Academic Advising Association.
albert rolls is an independent researcher who divides his time among
three pursuits: his career as an editor (most recently as the editor-in-
chief at AMS Press, Inc.), his scholarship (currently focused on
Pynchon’s writing), and his occasional teaching at CUNY and
Touro College. He has published on William Shakespeare, John
Donne, Alexander Pope, Charlotte Lennox, and Pynchon, among
others. His most recent book is Thomas Pynchon: The Demon in the
Text (2019).
umberto rossi co-edited (with Paolo Simonetti) Dream Tonight of
Peacock Tails (2015), a collection of essays on Pynchon’s V., and is the
author of The Twisted Worlds of Philip K. Dick (2011) and Il secolo di
fuoco (2008), an introduction to twentieth-century war literature. He is
a member of the Science Fiction Research Association.
michel ryckx is a data analyst who lives in Eindhoven. He manages
vheissu.net, a site about Pynchon’s works.
justin st. clair is Associate Professor of English at the University of
South Alabama. He is the author of Sound and Aural Media in
Postmodern Literature: Novel Listening (2013) and his work on
Pynchon has also appeared in Science Fiction Studies, the Los Angeles
Review of Books, Pynchon’s Against the Day: A Corrupted Pilgrim’s Guide
(2011), and The City since 9/11: Literature, Film, Television (2016).
xvi List of Contributors
eric sandberg is Assistant Professor at City University of Hong Kong.
His research interests range from modernism to the twenty-first-century
novel. His monograph Virginia Woolf: Experiments in Character was
published in 2014. He has co-edited Adaptation, Awards Culture, and
the Value of Prestige (2017) and edited 100 Greatest Literary Detectives
(2018).
jeffrey severs is Associate Professor of English at the University of
British Columbia. He is the author of David Foster Wallace’s
Balancing Books: Fictions of Value (2017) and co-editor (with
Christopher Leise) of Pynchon’s Against the Day: A Corrupted
Pilgrim’s Guide (2011). He has also published several articles and
book chapters on Pynchon, including “‘A City of the Future’:
Gravity’s Rainbow and the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair” in Twentieth-
Century Literature (2016).
paolo simonetti teaches Anglo-American Literature at “Sapienza”
Università di Roma (Italy). He is the author of a book on postmodernist
American fiction, Paranoia Blues (2009) and the co-editor of a collection
of essays on Pynchon’s V., Dream Tonight of Peacock Tails (2015). He has
published extensively on a number of writers, including Herman
Melville, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Ernest Hemingway, Vladimir
Nabokov, Bernard Malamud, Paul Auster, Robert Coover, Pynchon,
and Don DeLillo. He is currently working on a monograph on
Melville’s works after Moby-Dick.
joseph tabbi is the author of Cognitive Fictions (2002) and Postmodern
Sublime: Technology and American Writing from Mailer to Cyberpunk
(1995). His biography of William Gaddis, Nobody Grew but the Business
(2015), received an award from the Chicago Society of Midland Authors.
The editor of the electronic book review, Tabbi is also the founding
member of the Consortium on Electronic Literature (cellproject.net/).
celia wallhead is a graduate of the University of Birmingham and
holds PhDs from the Universities of London and Granada. After
teaching at the University of Auckland and the University of Wales,
she worked for the British Council in Granada. Since 1990, she has
taught English at the University of Granada and organized
a Pynchon Conference there in 2006. She teaches Pynchon and has
published on him in Pynchon Notes and Orbit: A Journal of American
Literature.
List of Contributors xvii
tim ware is a musician, composer, business owner (HyperArts Web
Design), and Pynchon aficionado. In 1996, he designed and developed
the first Pynchon-focused website – ThomasPynchon.com – as well as
the Pynchon Wikis, a suite of wikis for each of Pynchon’s novels. He
lives in Oakland, California.
steven weisenburger is Mossiker Chair in Humanities and Professor
of English at Southern Methodist University in Dallas, Texas. He has
published extensively on modern and contemporary US literature, as
well as race and slavery in US history. His books include A Gravity’s
Rainbow Companion: Sources and Contexts for Pynchon’s Novel (1988;
revised 2nd ed. 2006), Fables of Subversion: Satire and the American
Novel (1995), Modern Medea: A Family Story of Slavery and Child-Murder
from the Old South (1998), and, with Luc Herman, Gravity’s Rainbow,
Domination & Freedom (2013).
Abbreviations
Throughout this volume, page references are given to the original editions
of Thomas Pynchon’s longer works with the following abbreviations:
Editions with the same pagination as the original hardback are still com-
mercially available (from publishers such as Buccaneer, Penguin 20th
Century Classics, Back Bay Books, Picador and Jonathan Cape).
Useful conversion tables between these and other popular editions may
be found in various readers’ guides and companions, such as those by
J. Kerry Grant and Steven Weisenburger, and online wikis on specific
novels.
xviii
Chronology
John M. Krafft
Thomas Pynchon has long had a place in the pantheon of Great American
Writers. His status lies in the scope of his work – the number of publica-
tions, the prodigious detail and expansiveness of his topics – as well as the
sheer quality of his writing, all of which quickly led to comparisons with
Herman Melville and James Joyce. His writing is widely taught (as part of
required literature survey courses at universities, for example), and remains
the subject of many scholarly articles, dissertations, and monographs not
just in the United States and other English-speaking countries, as one
might expect, but also across Europe and Asia. According to the database of
publications compiled on Vheissu.net, more than 400 doctoral disserta-
tions have been accepted and more than 100 monographs and essay
collections published on his writing already, mostly in English but also
in other languages such as Spanish, Italian, and German, with a handful
from publishers in Korea, China, and Japan. However, Pynchon is not just
a canonical writer within scholarly research and teaching communities.
Because of their scope and imaginative richness, his novels also have great
appeal outside academia, and many devoted readers share their interest in
his novels on websites dedicated to exploring his work. It is to help all such
readers and students that Thomas Pynchon in Context brings together forty-
four essays by some of the foremost specialists in the field, providing the
most comprehensive resource yet published on the many ways in which his
writing engages the wider world.
Given Pynchon’s sizable, diverse, and devoted readership, it has not
been unexpected, at least once a year and at least since Gravity’s Rainbow
was published in 1973, to find Pynchonites, Pynchonians, or Pynchon-
heads wondering if this would be the year a Nobel Prize in Literature
would finally be awarded to their chosen author. Fans of other novelists
will have similar hopes, no doubt, but like a reverse doomsday cult trying
to explain why the world did not end as predicted, followers of Pynchon’s
career can offer a number of good reasons every October why the Swedish
1
2 inger h. dalsgaard
Academy has again passed him over. One has been the suspicion that
Pynchon, who values his privacy to the point of being branded a recluse,
might not show up to a prize ceremony at which he would reveal his face to
the world after six decades without an official photo. If avoiding the
embarrassment of a no-show Laureate was a goal for the Swedish
Academy, however, Bob Dylan foiled that plan in 2016. That Pynchon
might not have accepted the Nobel Prize in Literature in the first place is
a more likely conjecture, insofar as Pynchon has politely declined literary
awards since 1975. Statements by the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish
Academy Horace Engdahl in 2008, which to some observers implied a bias
against American literature for being parochial and not part of world
literature, added another explanation for a dearth of American literary
Nobel Laureates since Toni Morrison in 1993. Whether or not fans of
Thomas Pynchon’s writing are primed to see conspiracies in many places,
readers of this volume have an opportunity to assess whether his writing
styles, topics, or settings are as isolated as he is perceived personally to be
(or as Engdahl seemed to imply American authors were in general). As the
selection demonstrates, there is nothing parochial or isolated about the
wealth of contexts relevant to his authorship, and being able to choose
forty-four different contexts for this collection has been an exercise in
restraint, though it may not seem so. As the editor and as a fan, I am
convinced that the great appeal of Thomas Pynchon’s writing lies in how
open it is to the world and almost everything in it.
Since the publication of his first short stories in 1959, Thomas Pynchon
has become a prolific author in more senses than one. Although seventeen
years intervened between the publication of Gravity’s Rainbow (1973), the
first of his “century novels,” and Vineland (1990), the second in the cycle of
what have now been called his “California novels,” the early twenty-first
century has so far seen three novels published: one of them more than
1,000 pages in length, the others more than 300 and 400 pages long
respectively. It is not, however, the simple quantity and size of his novels
that foster critical appreciation. Readers also appreciate – to the point of
being overwhelmed if unaided – the books’ unparalleled scope (in terms of
historical periods, geographic locations, and cultural, political, and social
themes), a quality that best justifies references to Pynchon’s “encyclopedic”
style of writing. Readers of his longer, “century novels” (Mason & Dixon,
Against the Day, and Gravity’s Rainbow in particular) might feel obliged
continually to consult an encyclopedia when reading these seemingly all-
inclusive texts. What this collection reveals, however, is that while they
teem with references and allusions, formal invention and generic parodies,
Introduction 3
encyclopedic knowledge and flights of imagination, it is both possible and
beneficial to identify significant and recurring themes, ideas, and events in
his texts. Thomas Pynchon in Context highlights many of these, bringing
together concise, focused, and clearly written essays by forty-seven
researchers whose work on the author has previously appeared for the
most part in specialized scholarly essays and monographs.
The essays in Thomas Pynchon in Context fall into three sections.
The first, Times and Places, not only sets out what is known about the
reclusive author but also discusses his novels in terms of their temporal and
geographical settings. These cover hundreds of years and almost every
continent, which means that although not much may be known about
Pynchon’s own whereabouts for the last six decades, there is plenty to say
about the wheres and whens of his novels. The second (and largest) set of
essays, Culture, Politics, and Society, identifies and helps map the most
significant fields with which Pynchon’s writing engages and in which it
operates. Although each essay functions independently, many also form
clusters that may be read in combination, ideally enabling either a deeper
understanding of connected themes or a fruitful dialogue, not least for
those seeking to research different angles on Pynchon’s work. The social,
political, and cultural contexts rehearsed in this collection may be the most
numerous. However, given the prolific nature of the “Pynchon Industry”
(which has grown impressively over the past four decades), this anthology’s
third and final section, Approaches and Readings, offers a thorough ground-
ing in the variety of stances from which Pynchon’s unique, highly complex,
but very rewarding fiction may be read and understood. Essays in this
section not only review and update classic ideas to which researchers still
refer when explaining Pynchon as a beacon in postmodern literature; they
also identify some of the newest departures in Pynchon studies, including
material and digital readings. This set of essays also includes an assessment
of the strong community of readers, fans, and academics active in both
online fora and the thriving market for academic publications on every
aspect of Thomas Pynchon’s writing.
No man is an island and no woman is isolated when getting to grips with
the wealth of information on, approaches to, and contexts for Thomas
Pynchon’s writing. The sense of community around and loyalty toward
these works undoubtedly helped me convince forty-seven men and women
from several different continents, ranging from younger scholars via emer-
itus/a professors to Pynchon experts based outside academic institutions,
to contribute their knowledge, insights, and hard work to this collection,
and I want to thank them all for doing so. I am particularly grateful for
4 inger h. dalsgaard
such commitment to the cause. It meant that many people made efforts,
provided encouragement, and volunteered additional information beyond
the remit of their particular essay when asked. Among them are John
Krafft, Albert Rolls, and Katie Muth, who between them made invaluable
contributions to the successful compilation of both the chronology and the
further reading list. Thanks to the encouragement of Ray Ryan of
Cambridge University Press and the efforts of his staff, the opportunity
to edit this in Context volume (the first on a living author) has enabled me
to expand on some of the ideas developed with co-editors Luc Herman and
Brian McHale in The Cambridge Companion to Thomas Pynchon (2012)
about what would be useful to a community of his readers. I also owe
a considerable debt of gratitude to Aarhus University, Tobias Omø
Kristensen and to Dale Carter, who provided substantial practical support
in the making of Thomas Pynchon in Context, proving that a great author
can encourage a selfless and communal spirit when the goal is to help fellow
readers. Finally, it has been a particular joy to receive a generous offer from
the artist Etienne Delessert, known for previous illustrations for Pynchon
work, to create a new portrait of the author for this volume: no small
challenge, in the absence of authorized pictures of a writer who has long
guarded his image in the face of widespread public interest and curiosity.
Creating such a unique artistic interpretation to represent this novelist,
now in his eighties, seems a respectful way of serving both interests: his for
anonymity and ours for an icon. Though Pynchon’s own work may not
(yet) have been judged the most “ideal” or “idealistic,” in accordance with
the wording of Alfred Nobel’s will, there is a certain idealism among those
who truly love his work. I hope this collection proves a useful tool for all
those readers and students of Pynchon entering this world, and who
welcome a helping hand on their journey.
part i
Times and Places
chapter 1
Biography
John M. Krafft
Thomas Pynchon has so carefully guarded his privacy that relatively little is
known for certain about his personal life. He evidently prefers to have
readers focus on his fiction rather than on himself. His principled deter-
mination to avoid personal publicity has led to his routinely, but inaccu-
rately, being described as a recluse, has sparked some bizarre rumors – that
he was J. D. Salinger, or the Unabomber – and has provoked some spiteful
and self-serving revelations.1 After defying the norms of celebrity culture
for decades, Pynchon does seem to have let down his guard a bit: In 2004
he mocked his own reputation as a “reclusive author” by voicing
a caricature of himself with a brown paper bag over his head in two
episodes of The Simpsons, and in 2009 he narrated a promotional video
for his novel Inherent Vice.
Pynchon’s ancestors can be traced back to the time of the Norman
Conquest of England in 1066. His earliest ancestor in America, William
Pynchon (1590–1662), joined the Great Migration of Puritans to New
England in 1630, served as treasurer of the Massachusetts Bay Colony,
founded both Roxbury and Springfield in Massachusetts, and was
a successful merchant and fur trader, a magistrate, and an amateur theo-
logian. But he returned to England in 1652 after stirring up controversy by
publishing The Meritorious Price of Our Redemption (1650), a book
Massachusetts authorities judged heretical and ordered burned in the
Boston marketplace. William Pynchon’s American descendants have
included other merchants, politicians, clergymen, educators, scientists,
physicians, inventors, and financiers. They do not include the
“Pyncheons” satirized in Hawthorne’s House of the Seven Gables (1851),
who were modeled on Hawthorne’s own ancestors.2 The novelist’s father,
Thomas R. Pynchon, Sr. (1907–95), was an industrial surveyor, a highway
engineer, and a local Republican politician. His mother, Catherine
Bennett Pynchon (1909–96), was a registered nurse and a “founding
volunteer of the East Norwich Public Library.”3
7
8 john m. krafft
The eldest of three children, Pynchon was born on May 8, 1937, in Glen
Cove, Long Island, New York, and grew up in nearby East Norwich. This
scion of New England Puritans was raised a Roman Catholic. A half-dozen
of his earliest known stories appeared pseudonymously in the Oyster Bay
High School newspaper, Purple and Gold, in 1952–53. After graduating at
sixteen as class salutatorian and a prize-winning English student, Pynchon
entered Cornell University with a scholarship as an Engineering Physics
major. He remained in that program for only one year, then switched to
Arts and Sciences.4 As summer employment, he may have done the kind of
roadwork recalled by his characters Profane in V. and Slothrop in Gravity’s
Rainbow.5 After his sophomore year, he enlisted for a two-year tour of duty
in the US Navy, then returned to Cornell in 1957 and graduated with
a bachelor’s degree in English in 1959. Offered a Woodrow Wilson
Graduate Fellowship and the opportunity to teach creative writing at
Cornell, Pynchon reportedly preferred to concentrate on his own creative
writing.6
At Cornell, Pynchon became friends with folk singer and novelist Richard
Fariña, and other aspiring writers such as historian and activist Kirkpatrick
Sale, with whom he collaborated in 1958 on a never-finished dystopian
musical, Minstrel Island. Other Cornell friends included playwright David
Seidler and freelance writer Jules Siegel. Reliable evidence that Pynchon
formally took a course taught by Vladimir Nabokov, author of the novel
Lolita (1955), is sparse and ambiguous,7 although Pynchon may have audited
Nabokov’s classes or otherwise known or worked with him informally.
Pynchon’s most famous instructor of record was M. H. Abrams, later the
founding general editor of The Norton Anthology of English Literature.
The year 1959 saw publication of Pynchon’s first two mature short
stories, “The Small Rain” and “Mortality and Mercy in Vienna.”
“Low-lands” appeared in 1960 – despite a publishing executive’s
prediction that its author would “be selling used Chevrolets within
a year.”8 Pynchon’s best-known short story, “Entropy,” also appeared
that year, and was included in the next annual Best American Short
Stories. “Under the Rose,” published in 1961, won an O. Henry
Award.
Pynchon spent the last half of 1959 living in Greenwich Village – where
he and Fariña “‘would [. . .] listen a lot’” to jazz in nightclubs – and
working on V.9 He applied, unsuccessfully, for a Ford Foundation
Fellowship to work with an opera company, proposing to write an original
libretto or else to adapt science fiction by Ray Bradbury or Alfred Bester.10
From February 1960 to September 1962, he worked as a technical writer on
Biography 9
the staff of a house organ, Bomarc Service News, at the Boeing Airplane Co.
in Seattle.11 While there, he completed writing and extensively revising
V. (1963), which received the William Faulkner Foundation Award as
the year’s best first novel and was a National Book Award finalist.
“The Secret Integration,” Pynchon’s last-published short story,
appeared in 1964. Pynchon himself has said “The Secret Integration”
marked his progression from “apprentice” to “journeyman” (SL 3).
His second novel, The Crying of Lot 49, appeared in 1966 and received
a Rosenthal Foundation Award. Curiously, Pynchon has disparaged Lot 49
as a “story [. . .] which was marketed as a ‘novel,’ and in which I seem to
have forgotten most of what I thought I’d learned up till then” (SL 22).
Gravity’s Rainbow (1973), widely considered Pynchon’s masterpiece, shared
the National Book Award with Isaac Bashevis Singer’s Crown of Feathers
and received runner-up honors for the annual Nebula Award from the
Science Fiction Writers of America. It was also unanimously recom-
mended by the fiction jury for a Pulitzer Prize, but the Pulitzer advisory
board balked, members calling the novel “‘unreadable,’ ‘turgid,’ ‘over-
written,’ and in parts ‘obscene.’”12 Awarded the Howells Medal by the
American Academy of Arts and Letters in 1975 for “the most distinguished
work of American fiction of the previous five years,” Pynchon politely
refused it.13 However, in 1988 he accepted a five-year, $310,000 MacArthur
Foundation Fellowship, and in 2018 a $100,000 lifetime-achievement
award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. The American
Academy of Arts and Sciences named Pynchon a Fellow in 2009.
Pynchon has published odds and ends of nonfiction, too. These include
one signed article on missile-handling safety (1960); essays on the Watts
riots (1966), Luddism (1984), and sloth (1993); a review of Gabriel
García Márquez’s novel Love in the Time of Cholera (1988); introductions
to books by Richard Fariña (1983), Donald Barthelme (1992), Jim Dodge
(1997), and George Orwell (2003); liner notes for CDs by Spike Jones
(1994) and by the indie rock band Lotion as well as an interview with that
band (1996); a piece about several social functions for his son’s school’s
newsletter (1999); a program note commemorating the tenth anniversary of
The Daily Show (2006); and numerous promotional blurbs for books by
other writers. In the seventeen-year interval between Gravity’s Rainbow and
Vineland (1990), he collected all his short stories except “Mortality and
Mercy in Vienna” into Slow Learner (1984), adding a reflective introduc-
tion. Many reviewers celebrated this introduction for being surprisingly
forthcoming, but other readers see it as a carefully guarded performance,
almost as if it were another short story. The novel Mason & Dixon appeared
10 john m. krafft
in 1997, Against the Day in 2006, Inherent Vice in 2009 and Bleeding Edge,
another National Book Award finalist, in 2013.
Though publicity-averse, Pynchon has spoken out publicly on some
literary and political issues. In 1965, in Holiday magazine, he praised
Oakley Hall’s “very fine [western] novel Warlock.”14 The next year, in
a letter to the New York Times Book Review, he mocked French novelist
Romain Gary for accusing him of stealing the name Genghis Cohen
for a character in The Crying of Lot 49. Pynchon’s name appears, along
with more than 400 others, on a 1968 open letter in the New York
Review of Books protesting the Vietnam War. Pynchon joined in offer-
ing words of support and encouragement, published in the New York
Times Book Review in 1989, to Salman Rushdie after the latter was put
under a fatwa by Iran’s Ayatollah Khomeini for writing the novel
The Satanic Verses (1988). Remarks attributed to Pynchon in a 2002
issue of Playboy Japan criticize the “affectless” reporting and the shal-
lowness of network news, describe both network and print journalism
as “propaganda,” and, sarcastically, recommend tobacco stock as
a good investment given the anxieties aroused by the terrorist attacks
of September 11, 2001.15 Pynchon’s agent disavowed those remarks on
his behalf. In a 2006 letter, which was released to the London Daily
Telegraph, Pynchon defended Ian McEwan, as a fellow writer of
historical fiction, against a charge of plagiarism for using details from
a memoir of World War II in his novel Atonement (2001).
In the absence of much hard information about details of Pynchon’s
private life, gossip about girlfriends, drug use, favorite TV programs and
pig fetishes, and trivia about eating habits and clothing preferences risk
being given undue weight. Gaps and possible contradictions in the record
are numerous, and what seems trustworthy may turn out to be untrue. For
example, Pynchon is said to have once considered “becoming a disk
jockey,” to have been “considered as a film critic by Esquire” in 1959, and
to have wanted the latter position perhaps in the mid-1960s.16
Apparently, Pynchon lived mostly in Mexico from late 1962 until 1964,
in Houston from 1964 to mid-1965, then mostly in various places around
California through the 1980s. According to unpublished letters to Faith
and Kirkpatrick Sale written from Mexico in 1963 and 1964, Pynchon
considered visiting them in Ghana but was prevented by a variety of
personal “traumata,” and by his making “[n]o real progress” on “three,
possibly four novels and assorted short stories I’ve been screwing around
with.”17 He wanted to do research in Italy and Yugoslavia, as well as
Africa.18 In late 1963 or early 1964, he nevertheless applied to the
Biography 11
University of California at Berkeley to pursue a second bachelor’s degree,
in mathematics, but was denied admission.19
Another letter to the Sales reveals a surprising side to the literary taste
and ambition of a writer early in his career who would soon become world
renowned as a quintessential postmodernist. Pynchon declared that “the
traditional realistic” novel was “the only kind of novel that is worth a shit,”
and added, “[that] is what, someday, I would like to be able to write.”20
In late 1965, Pynchon turned down an offer to teach at Bennington
College.21 The 1967 edition of the Cornell alumni directory lists Pynchon
as married and living in Oakland, California, around the time another
source places him in Berkeley.22 Still other sources place him in Manhattan
Beach, near Los Angeles, from roughly the mid-1960s to at least the early
1970s.23 (Manhattan Beach is generally taken to be the model for the
fictional Gordita Beach in Vineland and Inherent Vice.) A former landlady
is quoted as saying Pynchon moved in 1975 from Manhattan Beach to Big
Sur.24 In the early to mid-1970s he occasionally stayed in the Sales’
Greenwich Village apartment, below Donald Barthelme’s, “when the
Sales were away.”25 A 1974 letter Pynchon wrote from New York to nove-
lists David Shetzline and M. F. Beal expresses disillusionment with
national politics, disgust with cultural pretention, and disenchantment
with “a ‘literary’ life.”26
Pynchon is said to have “walked the 233-mile length of the Mason-
Dixon line” by the late 1970s, and to have spent some weeks or months
doing further research for Mason & Dixon in England at the end of the
decade.27 Driver’s license records give his address as Aptos, California,
during the 1980s, but whether he spent much time in Aptos or used it more
as an address of convenience while living elsewhere is uncertain.28 Since
about 1989, he has lived in New York City with his wife, the literary agent
Melanie Jackson. Melanie Jackson is a great-granddaughter of Theodore
Roosevelt and a granddaughter of Supreme Court Justice and Nürnberg
war-crimes prosecutor Robert H. Jackson.
Journalists’ determination to out Pynchon peaked around the time
Mason & Dixon was published. In 1996, New York magazine ran an alleged
photograph of Pynchon taken from behind; the next year, the London
Times published a head-on snapshot.29 That same year, a CNN camera
crew filmed Pynchon in his Manhattan neighborhood; but, in deference to
Pynchon’s telephoned objection, the network refrained from identifying
him in the street scenes it broadcast.30 Pynchon is reported to have told
CNN he believed “‘recluse’” was “‘code’” for “‘doesn’t like to talk to
reporters.’”31 The CNN footage is analyzed at some length in Fosco and
12 john m. krafft
Donatello Dubini’s documentary film thomas pynchon – a journey into the
mind of [p.] (2001). In it Richard Lane elaborately explains who in the
CNN clips he thinks is Pynchon, but some well-informed viewers believe
Lane is mistaken, and in the last couple of years journalistic outings, photos
included, have drawn relatively little attention.
Pynchon’s novels have also attracted other filmmakers’ attention.
Robert Bramkamp’s film Prüfstand 7 (2001) uses Gravity’s Rainbow as the
jumping-off point for “[t]he character study of a machine,” an extended
meditation on “the myth of the rocket.”32 The collective T.o.L.’s feature-
length animation Tamala 2010: A Punk Cat in Space (2002) alludes freely to
The Crying of Lot 49. Alex Ross Perry’s film Impolex [sic] (2009), with plot
and characters loosely resembling those of Gravity’s Rainbow, may be either
a knock-off or a tribute, or both. Paul Thomas Anderson made a film
adaptation of Pynchon’s Inherent Vice in 2014. In addition to films, plays,
and at least one poem, Pynchon’s novels have inspired the creation of
instrumental music, including settings of his lyrics, other vocal music,
elements of stories, graphic novels and videos, paintings, sculptures, Tarot
cards, bumper stickers, paper dolls, games, T-shirts, and refrigerator
magnets.
Perhaps it is just as well that Pynchon the man, in his eighties, still
largely eludes us, despite the perverse fascination that would make an
unwilling celebrity of him. Although we may be tempted to speculate
about autobiographical traces in Pynchon’s writing, we scarcely need to
know much about his life to appreciate his fiction for its own extraordinary
sake.
Notes
1. John Calvin Batchelor, “Thomas Pynchon Is Not Thomas Pynchon, Or, This
Is the End of the Plot Which Has No Name,” Soho Weekly News, April 22,
1976, pp. 15–17, 21, 35; Jules Siegel, “Who Is Thomas Pynchon . . . And Why
Did He Take Off with My Wife?” Playboy, March 1977, pp. 97, 122, 168–70,
172, 174; Andrew Gordon, “Smoking Dope with Thomas Pynchon: A Sixties
Memoir,” in Geoffrey Green, Donald J. Greiner, and Larry McCaffery (eds.),
The Vineland Papers: Critical Takes on Pynchon’s Novel (Normal, IL: Dalkey
Archive, 1994), pp. 167–78.
2. Deborah L. Madsen, “Colonial Legacies: The Pynchons of Springfield and the
Hawthornes of Salem,” in Klaus H. Schmidt and Fritz Fleischmann (eds.),
Early America Re-Explored: New Readings in Colonial, Early National, and
Antebellum Culture (New York: Peter Lang, 2000), pp. 49–69, p. 49.
3. “Paid Death Notices,” Newsday, November 19, 1996, p. A50.
Biography 13
4. Lance Schachterle, “Pynchon and Cornell Engineering Physics, 1953–54,”
Pynchon Notes, 26–27 (1990), 129–37.
5. Siegel, “Who Is Thomas Pynchon,” p. 122.
6. Cf. Mathew Winston, “The Quest for Pynchon,” Twentieth Century
Literature, 21.3 (1975), 278–87, p. 284.
7. James Gourley, “Vladimir Nabokov and Thomas Pynchon at Cornell
University,” ANQ, 30.3 (2017), 170–73.
8. Quoted in Al Silverman, The Time of Their Lives: The Golden Age of Great
American Book Publishers, Their Editors and Authors (New York: Truman
Talley, 2008), p. 157.
9. Louis Nichols, “In and Out of Books,” New York Times Book Review, April 28,
1963, p. 8; Thomas Pynchon, quoted in David Hajdu, Positively 4th Street:
The Lives and Times of Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Mimi Baez Fariña, and Richard
Fariña (New York: Farrar, 2001), p. 47.
10. Steven Weisenburger, “Thomas Pynchon at Twenty-Two: A Recovered
Autobiographical Sketch,” American Literature, 62.4 (1990), 692–97,
p. 696.
11. Adrian Wisnicki, “A Trove of New Works by Thomas Pynchon? Bomarc
Service News Rediscovered,” Pynchon Notes, 46–49 (2000–01), 9–34.
12. Peter Kihss, “Pulitzer Jurors Dismayed on Pynchon,” New York Times, May 8,
1974, p. 38.
13. William Styron, “Presentation to Thomas Pynchon of the Howells Medal for
Fiction of the Academy,” Proceedings of the American Academy of Arts and
Letters and the National Institute of Arts and Letters 2nd ser., 26 (1976), 43–46.
14. Thomas Pynchon, from “A Gift of Books,” Holiday, December 1965, pp.
164–65.
15. Motokazu Ohno, “Talk by Thomas Pynchon” [interview in Japanese],
Playboy Japan, January 2002, p. 32.
16. Winston, “Quest for Pynchon,” p. 284; Mel Gussow, “Pynchon’s Letters
Nudge His Mask,” New York Times, March 4, 1998, pp. E1, E8, p. E8.
17. Thomas Pynchon, unpublished letter to Faith and Kirkpatrick Sale,
March 27, 1964, in the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center,
The University of Texas at Austin; Thomas Pynchon, unpublished letter to
Faith and Kirkpatrick Sale, March 9, 1963, in the Harry Ransom Humanities
Research Center, The University of Texas at Austin.
18. Thomas Pynchon, unpublished letter to Faith and Kirkpatrick Sale, June 2,
1963, in the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center, The University of
Texas at Austin.
19. Pynchon, unpublished letter to Faith and Kirkpatrick Sale, March 27, 1964.
20. Thomas Pynchon, unpublished letter to Faith and Kirkpatrick Sale, June 29,
1963, in the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center, The University of
Texas at Austin.
21. Scott McLemee, “You Hide, They Seek,” Inside Higher Ed, November 15,
2006, www.insidehighered.com/views/2006/11/15/you-hide-they-seek.
22. Gordon, “Smoking Dope with Thomas Pynchon,” p. 171.
14 john m. krafft
23. Garrison Frost, “South Bay Pynchon,” Aesthetic, n.d. [2003], against-the-day
.pynchonwiki.com/wiki/index.php?title=South_Bay_Pynchon;
Bill Pearlman, “Short Cuts,” London Review of Books, December 17, 2009, p.
22; Siegel, “Who Is Thomas Pynchon.”
24. Garrison Frost, “Thomas and Evelyn,” Aesthetic, September 5, 2007, web
.archive.org/web/20131110153650/http://theaesthetic.com/NewFiles/thomas
andevelyn.html.
25. Tracy Daugherty, Hiding Man: A Biography of Donald Barthelme (New York:
St. Martin’s, 2009), p. 373.
26. Thomas Pynchon, unpublished letter to David Shetzline and M. F. Beal,
January 21, 1974.
27. Bill Roeder, “After the Rainbow,” Newsweek, August 7, 1978, p. 7;
Christopher Hitchens, “American Notes,” Times Literary Supplement,
July 12, 1985, p. 772; Tom Maschler, Publisher (London: Picador, 2005), pp.
95–97.
28. “Mapping Thomas Pynchon,” Vheissu, www.vheissu.net/bio/whereabouts
.php.
29. Nancy Jo Sales, “Meet Your Neighbor, Thomas Pynchon,” New York,
November 11, 1996, pp. 60–64; James Bone, “Mystery Writer,” The Times
Magazine [London], June 14, 1997, pp. 26–29.
30. Joie Chen and Charles Feldman, “Who Has Seen Thomas Pynchon the
Writer?” The World Today, CNN, June 5, 1997, 10:44 pm EDT.
31. Phil Kloer, “Reclusive Novelist Breaks His Silence,” Atlanta Journal and
Constitution, June 5, 1997, p. 2C.
32. Robert Bramkamp, “The Curtain Between the Images,” Pynchon Notes, 50–51
(2002), 24–34, p. 26.
chapter 2
Personal Positions
Other letters contain similar information about the goings-on of
friends, what Pynchon and the letters’ recipients are up to, and
Pynchon’s impressions of his surroundings in, for instance, Seattle
and Mexico. Among passages that recount the miscellanea of the day
are some that resonate beyond their moment. In the Mahool letter,
Pynchon illustrates what he later calls his “adopting Beat postures and
props” (SL 9), but he is being ironic. Observing that after leaving
Queens “he stayed up all night, roaming the negro streets,” he adopts
the position of those celebrated in Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl” (1956) and
then draws attention to his posturing, adding “specifically penn station
[sic] and environs,” where there may have been “bums” but not “an
angry fix.”12 As if to make sure the irony is seen, he later writes, “I love
sick sick sick [sic] . . . [Jules] feiffer [sic] has this group up here
[Greenwich Village hipsters] defined perfectly, pinned to the cork
board and fluttering helplessly,” a statement surely resonating as
Eliotic to the young Pynchon, who described himself as “entrenched
on the T. S. Eliot side of no man’s land” about nine months later.13
Pynchon had always been, and remains, entrenched between some
version of the Beat, or romantic, and Eliot, or classical, sides of things.
Ironic retelling aside, no one spends all night among “bums” without
maintaining some fascination with the gesture. Such fascination is also
displayed in the unfinished 1958 collaboration with Sale on the musical
Minstrel Island. In it, a bohemian group – led by Hero, a folksinger and
songwriter, and including Jazzman, who in Pynchon’s draft “need[s]
a fix” – is pitted against an IBM-dominated society – represented by
Broad and led by Johnny Badass – which wants to impose its system on
the island. To save their enclave, the bohemians convince Hero to seduce
Broad because sex can rekindle the life-energy (a notion derived from the
psychoanalyst Wilhelm Reich) that the IBM-structured system has extin-
guished. The influence of the Beats’ embracing of Reich is obvious, though
a parenthetical remark suggests Sale rather than Pynchon introduced the
Reichian conceit.14
18 albert rolls
Opposing Authority in Letter Form
Pynchon has also used letters as a fictional form: His attraction to enclaves
where dissent occurs dates back at least to his senior year in Oyster Bay
High School, 1952–53, when he wrote the epistolary sequence “Voice of the
Hamster” for his school newspaper, Purple and Gold. In this fiction, Boscoe
Stein, a student at Hamster High, which is located on a rock off the South
Shore, writes about his school to Sam, a student at Pynchon’s school.
The adult characters – among them the rumored-to-be heroin-using
trigonometry teacher and former bebop drummer, Mr. Faggiaducci –
superficially resemble Minstrel Island’s bohemians but do not form an
opposition. Each stands alone, and each adult’s subversive behavior is
not conscious opposition but symptomatic response to stifling conditions.
These conditions – which are inspected for institutional compliance by the
State Educational Inspector, J. Fattington Woodgrouse, grandson of the
school’s founder – are fostered by the enclosed nature of the rock.
The adults “warmly” welcome rather than resist Mr. Woodgrouse –
demonstrating their desire for conformity – but he suffers comic punish-
ments, leading to injuries and a mental breakdown. A source of opposition,
The Boys, emerges among the students. Their experiment to cause the
“psychoanalytic deletion of the super-ego” of Faggiaducci is the conscious
analogue to the destruction of Woodgrouse.15
Student opposition is not simply a reaction to confinement to the rock:
It leaks outside Pynchon’s fiction. After the last installment of “Voice of the
Hamster,” Purple and Gold printed “The Boys,” which describes the
maturation of a group, apparently the Math Club at Oyster Bay High
School, that was started for “goofing off and fooling around” after being
inspired by “a certain series of articles in the P&G.”16 Its members are
initially known only to “their own compact enclave” but emerge into
officialdom when they gather for a yearbook picture. “Mr. X.,” the school’s
own bop-influenced math teacher, is not initially there for the photo;
“The Boys” coax him into their collective by chanting “We want X!” just
as the fictional “Boys” push Faggiaducci into insanity by chanting “Do not
forsake me, Faggiaducci.” Seriousness to frivolity is the trajectory in both
stories, but Mr. X comes down to The Boys, beginning “a new era of
student-teacher relations.”17
Pynchon’s epistolary fiction incorporates his school’s culture, elements
of which are drawn into the narrative, while the school’s culture incorpo-
rates the fiction, the power of which is transformative. Analogously,
Pynchon’s own letters contextualize his work and are contextualized by
Letters and Juvenilia 19
it – as the use of Ginsberg’s “negro streets” discussed above discloses.
The letters then serve, in part, as framing devices, something David
Foster Wallace suggests when he builds part of Infinite Jest’s frame with
an allusion to the published Pynchon letter answering Romain Gary’s
accusation that Pynchon stole the name Genghis Cohen. Pynchon
described Gary’s problem as “perhaps more psychiatric than literary,”
a sentiment Wallace echoes when he notes that any resemblance between
one of his characters and an actual person is the product of coincidence or
“your own troubled imagination.”18 Framing separates interpreters from
the object and often clarifies their perception of it, an idea evidently
confirmed by the fact that of the two available Pynchon novel manuscripts,
only the one that can be framed by letters, namely V., has been discussed by
critics. The Vineland (1990) manuscript sits unexplored, the story behind
its transformation lost or yet to emerge.
The extant letters surrounding the preparation of V. for publication –
both those between Pynchon and Corlies Smith, his editor at Lippincott,
and those written to his college friend Faith Sale, née Apfelbaum (who
married Kirkpatrick Sale and began her editing career at Lippincott) – do
more than help us frame the process through which the novel emerged out
of the manuscript. They add nuance to our understanding of Pynchon,
undercutting the view that he is some kind of independent genius. That
notion, foreign to Pynchon’s own understanding of himself, was advanced
by the marketing department at Lippincott, which called V. “the most
important piece of fiction written since ULYSSES,” and later by Smith,
who said he suggested Pynchon make “a half-dozen minor changes [to V.];
Pynchon, ‘extremely reasonable,’ listened and agreed to three.”19
The statement makes it sound as if the difference between the manuscript
and the book was slight. Smith made three suggestions; Pynchon coun-
tered with fourteen, and Smith commented upon those.20 This summary
conceals the work that went into redrafting the manuscript, work for
which Pynchon did not take full credit, assuring Faith that without her,
Smith, and Catherine Carver, the copy editor who came up with the title,
the book would not be nearly as good as it is, while blaming himself for
failures he perceived.21
Nonfiction
Katie Muth
Notes
1. See Jules Siegel, “The Dark Triumvirate,” Cavalier, 15 (August 1965), pp.
14–16, 90–91.
2. Thomas Pynchon et al., “Words for Salman Rushdie,” New York Times Book
Review, March 12, 1989, www.nytimes.com/books/99/04/18/specials/rushdie-
words.html.
3. Luc Herman and John Krafft, “Race and Early Pynchon: Rewriting Sphere in
V.,” Critique, 52.1 (2011), 17–29, p. 20. On the introduction to Slow Learner,
see also Luc Herman and Bart Vervaeck, “Didn’t Know Any Better: Race and
Unreliable Narration in ‘Low-Lands’ by Thomas Pynchon,” in Elke D’hoker
and Gunther Martens (eds.), Narrative Unreliability in the Twentieth-Century
First-Person Novel (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008), pp. 231–46.
4. David Seed, “Pynchon in Watts,” Pynchon Notes, 9 (1982), 54–60;
Christopher Glazek, “The Pynchon Hoax,” New Yorker, August 10, 2009,
www.newyorker.com/news/news-desk/the-pynchon-hoax.
5. Pynchon and Fariña both read Warlock at Cornell in 1959. Though Pynchon
claims that he and Fariña “ran with different crowds” at Cornell, Fariña sent
Pynchon manuscript drafts of Been Down So Long in 1963, and there is some
indication that Pynchon shared drafts or proofs of V. with Fariña. Pynchon
was best man at Fariña’s marriage to Mimi Baez. See David Hajdu, Positively
4th Street: The Lives and Times of Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Mimi Baez Fariña,
and Richard Fariña (New York: Picador, 2001), pp. 177–79. A decade before
writing the notes to Spiked! Pynchon noted that the “orchestral recordings” of
Spike Jones “had a deep and indelible effect on me as a child” (SL 20).
6. David Witzling, Everybody’s America: Thomas Pynchon, Race, and the Cultures
of Postmodernism (New York: Routledge, 2008), p. 151.
7. Quoted in Seed, “Pynchon in Watts,” 54.
8. Thomas Pynchon, “Nearer, My Couch, to Thee,” New York Times Book
Review, June 6, 1993, pp. 3, 57, p. 57.
9. “Couch,” pp. 3, 57.
10. Martin Paul Eve is undoubtedly correct in finding echoes of Michel Foucault
here. See “Whose Line is it Anyway?: Enlightenment, Revolution, and Ipseic
Ethics in the Works of Thomas Pynchon,” Textual Practice, 26.5 (August
2012), 921–39.
11. “Couch,” p. 3.
12. For a provocative reading of the essay vis-à-vis labor, capital, and the
Enlightenment, see Brian Thill, “Mason & Dixon and the American Sins of
Consumption,” in Elizabeth Jane Wall Hinds (ed.), The Multiple Worlds of
Mason & Dixon: Eighteenth-Century Contexts, Postmodern Observations
(Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2005), pp. 49–76.
Nonfiction 29
13. See Gilles Deleuze, “Bartleby, Or, The Formula,” in Essays Critical and
Clinical, translated by Daniel W. Smith and Michael A. Greco
(Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1997), pp. 68–90. Did
Pynchon read Deleuze on Bartleby? Vineland’s notorious Italian Wedding
Fake Book suggests he might have done (VL 97). For a detailed discussion of
the Vineland reference, see Jeeshan Gazi, “On Deleuze and Guattari’s Italian
Wedding Fake Book: Pynchon, Improvisation, Social Organisation, and
Assemblage,” Orbit: A Journal of American Literature, 4.2 (2016): doi.org/10
.16995/orbit.192. For an extended discussion of Deleuzean thought and
Pynchon’s work, see Stefan Mattessich, Lines of Flight: Discursive Time and
Countercultural Desire in the Work of Thomas Pynchon (Durham, NC: Duke
University Press, 2002).
14. “Eyes on the Future,” Newsweek, May 30, 1993, www.newsweek.com/eyes-
future-193284. Other contemporary publications explicitly cited the rise of
immersive media as a boon for “couch potatoes.” See, for example, Peter Coy,
“There’ll Be a Heaven for Couch Potatoes, By and By,” Bloomberg,
November 1, 1993, www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/1993-10-31/therell-be-
a-heaven-for-couch-potatoes-by-and-by; or Barry Fox, “TV Galore –
A Couch Potato’s Dream Come True,” New Scientist, March 27, 1993, www
.newscientist.com/article/mg13718663-400-technology-tv-galore-a-couch-pot
atos-dream-come-true. It is also worth noting that in 1993 the phrase “couch
potato” was entered for the first time in the Oxford English Dictionary.
15. “Couch,” pp. 3, 57.
16. Joyce Carol Oates, “The One Unforgivable Sin,” New York Times Book
Review, July 25, 1993, www.nytimes.com/1993/07/25/books/the-deadly-sins-
despair-the-one-unforgivable-sin.html.
17. Angus Wilson et al., The Seven Deadly Sins (New York: William Morrow,
1962).
18. Editorial note, “Couch,” p. 3.
19. William Glaberson, “The Media Business; Newspapers’ Adoption of Color
Nearly Complete,” New York Times, May 31, 1993, www.nytimes.com/1993/
05/31/business/the-media-business-newspapers-adoption-of-color-nearly-co
mplete.html
20. William O. Tyler, quoted in Glaberson, “Media Business.”
21. Glaberson, “Media Business.”
22. “Books from the Times,” New York Times, October 23, 1994, www
.nytimes.com/1994/10/23/books/books-from-the-times.html
23. “Couch,” p. 3.
24. Carolyn C. Denard, “Introduction,” in Toni Morrison, What Moves at the
Margin: Selected Nonfiction (Jackson: University of Mississippi Press, 2008),
p. xiii.
25. There is good reason to attribute to Pynchon a handful of unsigned articles
from the Bomarc Service News, including particularly “Torquing” [sic],
Bomarc Service News, 11 (June 1960), pp. 7–9 and “The Mad Hatter and the
Mercury Wetted Relays,” Bomarc Service News, 31 (February 1962), p. 16.
30 katie muth
The essay on airlift procedure, “Togetherness,” appeared with the byline
“Thomas H. Pynchon” [sic] and is widely recognized as Pynchon’s work.
See “Togetherness,” Aerospace Safety, 16.2 (1960), pp. 6–8. For an extended
discussion of Pynchon’s work for Boeing, see Adrian Wisnicki, “A Trove of
New Works by Thomas Pynchon? Bomarc Service News Rediscovered,”
Pynchon Notes, 46–49 (2001), 9–34; and Katie Muth, “The Grammars of
the System: Thomas Pynchon at Boeing,” Textual Practice, 473–493 (2019),
DOI:doi.org/10.1080/0950236X.2019.1580514
26. Quoted in Thomas Pynchon, “The Heart’s Eternal Vow,” New York Times
Book Review, April 10, 1988, p. 1.
27. Thomas Pynchon, “Hallowe’en? Over Already?” The Cathedral School
Newsletter (January 1999), p. 3.
chapter 4
East Coast
Christopher Leise
Thomas Pynchon’s early fiction shows relatively little interest in the history
of his regional birthplace. His childhood home scarcely influences more
than one short story: Introducing Slow Learner (1984) he confesses,
“I mistakenly thought of Long Island then as a giant and featureless
sandbar, without history, someplace to get away from but not to feel
very connected to” (SL 20). As in Slow Learner’s collected stories, virtually
nothing in V. (1963) distinguishes rural areas such as western Massachusetts
from upstate New York; likewise, little other than the multiethnic demo-
graphics of “Nueva York” separate it from Norfolk, Virginia. As his oeuvre
developed, however, the East Coast became a font from which flows of
power, control, and capital issued; after The Crying of Lot 49 (1966), he
scrutinizes East Coast hegemony as threatening freedom and privacy.
Despite a tone of frustration and disapproval, however, Pynchon repeat-
edly identifies historical near-misses where East-Coast culture might have
become better in particular ways. He seems unwilling fully to give up hope
for a better East and, thereby, a better nation and better world.
Colonial Massachusetts
Gravity’s Rainbow introduces depth to the East Coast landscape beyond the
social undergrounds and sewer systems offered in V. Tyrone Slothrop
shares biographical ties with Pynchon: The fictional intelligence operative
and the real Navy veteran descended from the earliest immigrants to the
Massachusetts Bay Colony. Albeit an influential businessman, William
Pynchon was not immune to the intensities of fervor that gripped the
religious dissenters’ communities. Having privately urged a more capa-
cious attitude regarding tolerance of ecclesiastical and political diversity to
Governor John Winthrop in 1647, William’s leadership qualities made the
Massachusetts Bay authorities wary of his ideas and potential actions. Like
Anne Hutchinson before him, Pynchon possessed the combination of
erudition and clout that could destabilize an obviously fragile social
order. Thus upon his publishing a manuscript on Christian theology called
The Meritorious Price of Our Redemption in 1650, the Massachusetts
General Court ordered that all copies be gathered up and burned. After
being fined by the general court, William returned to England, keeping up
his battle with New England’s Congregationalist sectarians.1
Despite Nathaniel Hawthorne’s superficial protestations to the con-
trary, William Pynchon or his New English lineage probably offered
inspiration for the naming of the Pyncheon family central to The House
of the Seven Gables.2 Equally fictional, William Pynchon becomes
a “western swamp-Yankee” (GR 25) called William Slothrop in Gravity’s
Rainbow and the first American ancestor to Tyrone Slothrop. Thomas
Pynchon takes considerable license in reimagining his colonial forefather;
whereas the real William wielded substantial power, the novel’s William is
a marginal figure, first a ship’s cook then a middling pig farmer. Gravity’s
Rainbow does capture an important component of seventeenth-century
politics, however, by pointing out how the theocrats’ core beliefs were as
poorly articulated as they were exclusionary.
East Coast 33
William Pynchon and William Slothrop both highlight a potential
future inherent in New England’s colonial projects. They opened up
possible trajectories of development that, though foreclosed upon, could
have turned out otherwise. As New England’s Congregationalists became
mythologized into types of America’s “founding fathers,” one can find
attempts to construct the latter as an inclusive body politic, despite the
darker and more repressive regimes that won the day. Referencing William
Slothrop’s fictionalized treatise called On Preterition, Gravity’s Rainbow
plainly asks:
Could [William] have been the fork in the road America never took, the
singular point she jumped the wrong way from? Suppose the Slothropite
heresy had had the time to consolidate and prosper? [. . .] It seems to Tyrone
Slothrop that there might be a route back [. . .] maybe for a little while all the
fences are down, one road as good as another, the whole space of the Zone
cleared, depolarized, and somewhere inside the waste of it a single set of
coordinates from which to proceed, without elect, without preterite, with-
out even nationality to fuck it up. (GR 556)
Against such parochialism, the novel laments the violence imposed upon
the Earth and its peoples with each tree felled in carving out The Line in
the name of pure empiricism.
Perhaps nothing more fully embodies Pynchon’s frustration with
Enlightenment thinking’s absence of full self-awareness than does
The Line. Agents of an ostensibly secular science that has never fully
purged itself of Christianity’s idealist roots actually impose
a transcendent concept, drawn from astronomical observations, onto
a medium whose contours and history reject such an artificial orthogonal
order. Even as the East Coast continued to be shaped by nonlinear flows –
of people (over land and water), capital, ideas, cuisines, drugs, and dreams –
The Line reified an absent King’s power in the form of an idealized
separation of place from place, population from population. But the land
pushes back in the form of a house that straddles The Line and therefore
jurisdictions, as well as of an indigenous trade- and warpath beyond which
the surveyors will not proceed.
Likewise, regionally specific genre forms play a profound role in shaping
the novel’s take on the transformation of the East Coast from British
colonies to US states and Canadian provinces. The Ghastly Fop, introduced
as a “Gothick” novel, blends two forms of captivity narrative, offering
a distinctive look into paranoid styles of early American writing. In the
East Coast 35
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, stories of British colonists being
captured and held by Native Americans numbered among the most
popular texts produced by American writers. Though these texts began
as simultaneous expressions of a discrete person’s and a community’s likely
salvation by the Christian God, they gradually morphed into salacious
“blood-and-thunder shocker” stories.3 By the late nineteenth century,
however, fears about American Indians gave over to fears about
Catholics, such that tales of convent captivity circulated widely. Mason
& Dixon makes good sport out of tying the two together; the fact that the
characters Eliza and Zhang cross diegetic lines from The Ghastly Fop
somehow into the Rev. Wicks Cherrycoke’s journal playfully embodies
an element of Pynchon’s politics. The “truth” of things often becomes
conditioned through narrative into the way they seem, so those with power
to shape the seeming exert prodigious influence over the way the world is
experienced by others who live in it.
Notes
1. Philip F. Gura, “‘The Contagion of Corrupt Opinions’ in Puritan
Massachusetts: The Case of William Pynchon,” William and Mary Quarterly,
39.3 (1982), 469–91.
2. Deborah Madsen, “Hawthorne’s Puritans: From Fact to Fiction,” Journal of
American Studies, 33.3 (1999), 509–17.
3. Roy Harvey Pearce, “The Significance of the Captivity Narrative,” American
Literature, 19.1 (1947), 1–20, p. 6.
chapter 5
West Coast
Scott McClintock and John Miller
Notes
1. Richard Rodriguez, “Where the Poppies Grow,” in Stephanie Barron,
Sheri Bernstein, and Ilene Susan Fort (eds.), Made in California: Art, Image,
and Identity, 1900–2000 (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2000),
273–80, p. 273.
2. Joan Didion, “Notes from a Native Daughter,” in Slouching towards
Bethlehem (New York: Farrar, Strauss & Giroux, 1968), 171–86, p. 172.
3. Warren Hinckle, If You Have a Lemon, Make Lemonade (New York: Norton,
1990), p. ix.
4. Jeffrey Severs, “‘A City of the Future’: Gravity’s Rainbow and the 1962 Seattle
World’s Fair,” Twentieth-Century Literature, 62.2 (June 2016), 145–69.
5. Adrian Kudler, “Thomas Pynchon’s Manhattan Beach Duplex Asking
$1.05 MM” (June, 29, 2011), la.curbed.com/2011/6/29/10458620/
thomaspynchonsmanhattanbeachduplexasking105million.
6. Judith Chambers, Thomas Pynchon (New York: Twayne Publishers, 1992), p.
90; Rachel Adams, “The Ends of America, the Ends of Postmodernism,”
Twentieth Century Literature, 53 (2007): 248–72, pp. 252, 254.
7. Thomas Hill Schaub, “The Crying of Lot 49 and Other California Novels,” in
Inger H. Dalsgaard, Luc Herman, and Brian McHale (eds.), The Cambridge
Companion to Thomas Pynchon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2011), pp. 30–43.
8. David Cowart, “Attenuated Postmodernism: Pynchon’s Vineland,” in
Geoffrey Green, Donald J. Greiner, and Larry McCaffery (eds.),
The Vineland Papers: Critical Takes on Pynchon’s Novel (Normal, IL: Dalkey
Archive Press, 1994), 3–13, p. 9.
9. Sean Carswell, Occupy Pynchon (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press,
2017).
10. See, for instance, John Miller, “Present Subjunctive: Pynchon’s California
Novels,” Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction, 54.3 (2013), 225–37.
chapter 6
The War, the Empire, will expedite such barriers between our lives.
The War needs to divide this way, and to subdivide, through its propaganda
Europe and Asia 51
will always stress unity, alliance, pulling together. [. . .] Yet who can assume
to say what the War wants, so vast and aloof it is . . . so absent. Perhaps the
War isn’t even an awareness—not a life at all, really. There may only be
some cruel, accidental resemblance to life. (GR 130–131)
War creates the boundaries between nations and empires that have been
the raw stuff of formulating peoples and more wars. Moreover, war
impersonates life, understood as differentiation, around unities – what
Pynchon calls “structures favoring death” (GR 167) – that represent invi-
sible forces of power given representation by national boundaries.
The various national and linguistic divisions within Europe foment the
hierarchical difference of peoples; they are recast, however, from the
biological categories of the Reich, in its effort to conquer Europe, into
the victors and the vanquished who decide what can be understood as
rational and truthful.
Wars also exercise power relations that have serious effects on the
subjects they produce, often underwritten counterfactually by the logics
of technology, markets, and states. Slothrop, for one, becomes several
different war-related subjectivities over the course of Gravity’s Rainbow,
including Ian Scuffling, wartime correspondent, Rocketman, Max
Schlepzig, a Russian soldier and Plechazunga (a tenth-century German
pig war hero). These latter are dissimulations from his previous subjectiv-
ities adopted to enable him to flee the various national interests chasing
him. Through processes of national “subjectification,” power maintains an
imperceptible and ubiquitous presence without de facto exercising force.7
The processes of subjectification function as techniques for creating and
managing humans within a population, and can be used by both markets
and states. War is the strategy of maintaining subjectivities, a point that
Pynchon performs by documenting Slothrop’s later narrative dissolution
when national forces after the war have lost interest in him. He ceases to
exist, except as an element of storytelling.
At the same time the interregnum between the armistice and the
negotiated peace offers possibilities for alternative human coexistence out-
side state and market formations that must be extinguished. We see this
with V. marking 1919, the post–World War II “peace,” the militaristic
police state of Vineland inaugurated (ironically) to secure individual free-
dom during Cold War America, or the period leading up to World War
I in Against the Day. For example, the Zone in Gravity’s Rainbow is an
interstitial space between rulers, after the fall of the German regime and
before the Allies have created the “new map of the occupation” (GR 328).
52 j. paul narkunas
The Zone refers to the nation-state system that lies in ruin after the war, the
fragmented national unities of the Westphalian order; instead, proximate
spaces of subjectivity and inchoate possibilities of agency organize the Zone
through the fluxes and flows of people: “The Nationalities are on the move.
It is a great frontierless streaming out here. [. . .] so the populations move,
across the open meadow, limping, marching, shuffling, carried, hauling
along the detritus of an order, a European and bourgeois order they don’t
yet know is destroyed forever” (GR 549, 551). The old order, much like the
British Empire in Malta in V., or the Americas in Mason & Dixon, is
destroyed. One character, Squalidozzi, comments on how this disorder
actually brings new possibilities, which the central orders cannot tolerate:
“In ordinary times [. . .] the center always wins. Its power grows with time,
and that can’t be reversed, not by ordinary means. Decentralizing, back
toward anarchism needs extraordinary times” (GR 264–65). Slothrop
traverses the Zone to bear witness to the writing of the new European
dispensation at the Potsdam Conference, which will divide up the occu-
pied lands and begin the new occupation of Germany by US military bases.
Throughout Pynchon’s texts, he marks treaties and their dates, for they are
the signs of power to document the movement from active war to more
passive wars of geopolitical intrigue. Indeed, Pynchon highlights how
World War II was less about the nationalism both the German and
Allies marketed and used, than the workings of the Elect, the elites, on
the preterite, those on whom history is exercised.
Yet, as Pynchon stages in Against the Day, the people are not always
distracted about state nationalism, and in fact form their national identities
as resistances to imperial forces. Against the Day dramatizes various unre-
solved “national questions” from the 1890s leading up to World War
I when states were consolidating “peoples” within their territories into
nations and citizenries that they governed in the Balkans, Central Asia (in
the context of oil’s discovery in Baku), and the Americas (Mexico and the
western United States). Against the Day turns to the “Eastern Question”
and the subsequent Balkan Wars to demonstrate how European imperial
forces, even as they are dissolving the Ottoman Empire (roughly 1908–22),
maintain their power by actively fostering genocidal racial and ethnic
struggles to replace previous religious divisions. The Russo-Turkish War
(1877–78) and Treaties of San Stefano (March 1878) and Berlin (July 1878)
divided the region according to the balance-of-power ambitions of the
British, Russian, Austro-Hungarian, and Ottoman empires. They created
and legitimated a world of ethnic intelligibility based on their own imperial
ambitions that had little to do with the “actually existing” people.
Europe and Asia 53
The ethnic, linguistic, religious, and/or national consciousness of the
human collectivities in the region, while nominally recognized through
minority treaties, required protection from often distant imperial protec-
torates, thus setting the stage for many of the ethnic genocides of the
twentieth century (Armenian, Jews, Bosnians). While speaking to Cyprian
Latewood, a British secret service agent, Danilo Ashkil notes Europe’s
universalizing tendency, despite its regional provincialism: “What North
Europe thinks of as its history is actually quite provincial and of limited
interest. Different sorts of Christian killing each other, and that’s about it.
The Northern powers are more like administrators, who manipulate other
people’s history but produce none of their own. They are the stock-jobbers
of history, lives are their units of exchange” (AD 828). Consequently,
Britain, Russia, Austro-Hungary, and the Ottomans would support spe-
cific factions within inchoate nationalist movements to discipline and
control peasant nationalisms by fostering client states to destabilize the
region and work within the political-economic ambitions of competing
European powers. Pynchon is documenting the legacy of Bismarckian
European realpolitik, suppressing other human collectivities as they mate-
rialize amidst the breakup of the nation-state system.
The system of treaties (the Treaty of Berlin, the Treaty of Versailles)
defines the realities of the people in Western Europe, who initially equate
nationalism with economic modernization to combat oppressive imperial
forces of domination. Inchoate nationalists are galvanized because these
imperial treaties dispossess them, leading to such suffering that they have
little to lose through armed struggle. Yet, according to Ratty McHugh’s
analysis on the cusp of World War I, a fluctuating map depicts the very
crisis of the nation-state:
Today even the dimmest of capitalists can see that the centralized nation-
state, so promising an idea a generation ago, has lost all credibility with the
population. [. . .] If a nation wants to preserve itself, what other steps can it
take, but mobilize and go to war? Central governments were never designed
for peace [. . .] The national idea depends on war. (AD 938)
It is sometimes said that American writers are insular, and write only, or at
least primarily, about America. While this may be true in some cases, it is
hardly true of Thomas Pynchon. George Saunders has said that Pynchon
tries to cram the whole world into his fiction, and Saunders finds a hint of
Buddhism in Pynchon’s impulse to absorb the world, especially evident in
his longer novels.1 Of the many international locales Pynchon takes his
readers to, Africa and Latin America occupy a prominent place. Rather
than show how small our world is becoming, Pynchon seems intent on
preserving the largeness of the world – in terms of its cultural diversity – in
the face of the reductionist onslaughts of colonialism, Western cultural
domination, and technological advances that overshadow traditional ways
of knowing and seeing. Much of Pynchon’s fiction represents his charting
through several centuries of history the precarious survival of cultures, such
as those in Africa and Latin America, which represent alternative ways of
life, full of vitality that Europe and North America lack. Thus, if Saunders
is accurate about Pynchon’s desire to include the whole world in his work,
then Africa and Latin America represent vital parts of that world.
We might begin with two articles by Pynchon that appeared in the
New York Times Magazine and Book Review. The first one, “A Journey
Into The Mind of Watts,” represents his reflection on the race riots
that took place in Los Angeles in August 1966.2 Pynchon asserts that
Los Angeles suffers from a “racial sickness” based on the uneasy
“coexistence of two very different cultures: one white and one black.”
His target is the indifference of the white population, cocooned by
their total separation from the African American community living
a few blocks away: “Watts is a country which lies, psychologically,
uncounted miles further than most whites seem at present willing to
travel.” In his first novel, V. (1963), Pynchon traces this situation,
implicitly but clearly, back to the European colonial era and the slave
trade on the African continent.
57
58 michael harris
In the second article, “The Heart’s Eternal Vow,” Pynchon glowingly
reviews Gabriel García Márquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera.3 This
review, in which he admires the “Garciamarquesian voice we have come
to recognize from the [master’s] other fiction,” has a different tone than his
somber reflection on the Watts riots. He praises García Márquez’s
difference – his willingness to take on a threadbare topic and breathe new
life into it. As Pynchon puts it, “Suppose, then, it were possible, not only to
swear love ‘forever,’ but actually to follow through on it – to live a long, full
and authentic life based on such a vow, to put one’s allotted stake of
precious time where one’s heart is?” That, he goes on to say, is the
“extraordinary premise” of Love in the Time of Cholera. García Márquez,
a key figure in the Latin American literary “boom” of the 1960s and 1970s,
helped put that region and its frequently overlooked culture on the world’s
map. Pynchon shows in this review that Latin America, like Africa,
occupies an important place in his cultural lexicon; this is also evident in
his novels, such as The Crying of Lot 49 (1966), when Oedipa recalls an
exhibit of the work of the Spanish-Mexican artist Remedios Varo she once
saw in Mexico City.
Reading Pynchon’s fiction, one often feels directed back toward history.
Rather than “official history,” which he regards with distrust, Pynchon
examines overlooked and forgotten histories. For instance, he repeatedly
recalls the European colonial era of the eighteenth and nineteenth centu-
ries, as it played out in the so-called “developing world.” Colonialism is
such a key focus in Pynchon’s work that Louis Menand has asserted that
“nearly everything Pynchon has written is, essentially, a lament over
colonialism – political, economic, cultural, sexual.”4 In his first novel, V.,
Pynchon draws the reader’s attention to the colony of German South-West
Africa (now Namibia) in the years leading up to World War I, when the
Hereros and Hottentots rebelled against German colonial rule. He reima-
gines a little-known historic event – rarely discussed, even by historians at
the time – when the Germans attempted genocide against these two
groups. Pynchon looks back on the rebellion and the German response,
led by General Lothar von Trotha, with a grim sense of factual irony:
In August 1904, von Trotha issued his “Vernichtungs Befehl,” whereby the
German forces were ordered to exterminate systematically every Herero
man, woman and child they could find. He was about 80 per cent successful.
Out of the estimated 80,000 Hereros living in the territory in 1904, an
official German census taken seven years later set the population at only
15,130, this being a decrease of 64,870. Similarly, the Hottentots were
reduced in the same period by about 10,000. [. . .] Allowing for natural
Africa and Latin America 59
causes during those unnatural years, von Trotha, who stayed for only one of
them, is reckoned to have done away with about 60,000 people. This is only
1 per cent of six million, but still pretty good. (V 245)
Notes
1. Gerald Howard, “Pynchon from A to V,” Book Forum, June/July/August/
September 2005, pp. 29–40, p. 30.
2. Thomas Pynchon, “A Journey Into The Mind of Watts,” New York Times
Magazine, June 12, 1966, pp. 34–35, 78, 80–82, 84, p. 35.
3. Thomas Pynchon, “The Heart’s Eternal Vow,” New York Times Book Review,
April 10, 1988, pp. 1, 47–49, p. 1.
4. Louis Menand, “Entropology,” in New York Review of Books, 44.10, June 12,
1997, 22–25, p. 25.
5. Slavoj Žižek, First as Tragedy, Then as Farce (New York: Verso, 2009), p. 1.
6. Robert Holton, “In the Rathouse of History with Thomas Pynchon:
Rereading V.,” Textual Practice, 2 (1988), 324–44, p. 333.
7. David Seed, “Pynchon’s Reading for Gravity’s Rainbow,” in The Fictional
Labyrinths of Thomas Pynchon (Iowa City, IA: University of Iowa Press, 1988),
240–43, p. 241.
8. Homi Bhabha, The Location of Culture (New York: Routledge, 1994), p. 112.
9. Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth (New York: Grove, 1963), p. 31.
10. See Samuel Thomas, “The Gaucho Sells Out: Thomas Pynchon and
Argentina,” Studies in American Fiction (2013), 40.1, 53–85.
11. Robert J. C. Young, Colonial Desire: Hybridity in Theory, Culture and Race
(London: Routledge, 1995), p. 98.
12. Young, Colonial Desire, p. 90.
13. See M. E. Chamberlain, The Scramble for Africa (Harlow, UK: Longman,
1974).
chapter 8
Haven’t we been saying, with an hundred Blades all the day long,— This is
how far into your land we may strike, this is what we claim to westward.
As you see what we may do to Trees, and how little we care,— imagine
72 sascha pöhlmann
how little we care for Indians, and what we are prepar’d to do to you. (MD
678–79)
The Line, then, is a violent tool of colonialist conquest, and “mapmaking is
another imperialistic transgression,” as it destroys what exists in the space it
dissects, bringing with it a new system that will deeply change the order of
being that previously existed.6 Mason and Dixon may choose not to cross
the Great Warrior Path with their Visto, respecting the Native American
line instead of overwriting it and thus rendering it meaningless, but there is
no doubt that it would not be long until somebody else would. Captain
Zhang explicitly describes geography as a means of control and power:
To rule forever [. . .] it is necessary only to create, among the people one
would rule, what we call . . . Bad History. Nothing will produce Bad History
more directly nor brutally, than drawing a Line, in particular a Right Line,
the very Shape of Contempt, through the midst of a People,— to create thus
a Distinction betwixt ’em,— ’tis the first stroke,— All else will follow as if
predestin’d, unto War and Devastation. (MD 615)
The settlers along the line know that it is supposed “to separate us, name us
anew” (MD 710), and Mason and Dixon’s line contributes directly to the
formation of an American identity and, ultimately, the creation of the
nation-state of the United States. Maps “function as means to interpellate
people into the officially sanctioned symbolic order of their societies,” and
Mason & Dixon retraces the process of how geography helped create that
symbolic order of the United States.7 The creation of a national territory –
the inscription of the national imagination upon the land – is perhaps the
single most important geographical act in modern history, and Pynchon’s
novels explicitly challenge and subvert these inscriptions of politics onto
the land and onto the identities of those who live there. Like Gravity’s
Rainbow and the Zone, Mason & Dixon includes its own space of resistance
to such inscription, not just in the West that is gradually being brought
under geographical (and thus political) control, but also in:
the notorious Wedge,— resulting from the failure of the Tangent Point to
be exactly at this corner of Maryland, but rather some five miles south,
creating a semicusp or Thorn of that Length, and doubtful ownership,—
not so much claim’d by any one Province, as priz’d for its Ambiguity,—
occupied by all whose Wish, hardly uncommon in this Era of fluid Identity,
is not to reside anywhere. (MD 469)
This “small geographick Anomaly” (MD 470) that does not belong to
anyone has a very real effect on those who live there: “To be born and rear’d
in the Wedge is to occupy a singular location in an emerging moral
Geographies and Mapping 73
Geometry” (MD 323), and it means resistance to the official inscriptions of
territory and identity that would culminate eventually in the construction
of a national imagined community.
Pynchon’s parageographical practice of superimposing alternative maps of
the world upon more familiar ones – along with his dialectic critique of
geography – serves many different purposes and may be interpreted in
a variety of ways, but its subversion of the national seems to me one of the
most pertinent. No other concept of imagining community in modernity
relies so strongly on the construction of territory in defining the sovereignty
of the nation-state, and no other concept has linked territory and identity so
thoroughly and dangerously. The national map is the most familiar one
today, and it is precisely the map that Pynchon’s novels complicate, revise,
and subvert, not just by presenting the postnational space of the Zone, but
by showing the geographical processes of writing the nation on maps, on the
Earth itself, and on those who inhabit it. In Pynchon’s novels, geography
offers both a means of power and a means of escape and critique; if there is
a single map to exert control over a territory by imagining it, then there are
always other maps that may challenge this dominant version – and
Pynchon’s novels themselves may well be considered these other maps that
complicate not just the relation between the word and the world, but also the
very notion of the world as something singular.
Notes
1. Thomas Pynchon, Blurb, Against the Day (New York: Penguin, 2006),
Pynchonwiki, against-the-day.pynchonwiki.com/wiki/index.php?
title=Against_the_Day_description
2. Bernard Duyfhuizen, “Starry-Eyed Semiotics: Learning to Read Slothrop’s
Map and Gravity’s Rainbow,” Pynchon Notes, 6 (1981), 5–33, p. 22.
3. Lawrence Kappel, “Psychic Geography in Gravity’s Rainbow,” Contemporary
Literature 21.2 (Spring 1980), 225–51, p. 234.
4. Tony Tanner, Thomas Pynchon (London: Methuen, 1982), p. 80.
5. José Liste Noya, “Mapping the ‘Unmappable’: Inhabiting the Fantastic
Interface in Gravity’s Rainbow” in Studies in the Novel 29.4 (Winter 1997), pp.
512–37, p. 513.
6. Arthur Saltzman, “‘Cranks of Ev’ry Radius’: Romancing the Line in Mason &
Dixon,” in Brooke Horvath and Irving Malin (eds.), Pynchon and Mason &
Dixon (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press, 2000), 63–72, p. 65.
7. Robert L. McLaughlin, “Surveying, Mapmaking and Representation,” in Ian
D. Copestake (ed.), American Postmodernity: Essays on the Recent Fiction of
Thomas Pynchon (Bern: Peter Lang, 2003), 173–92, p. 180.
chapter 9
Notes
1. Pedro Garcia-Caro, “’America was the only place. . .’: American
Exceptionalism and the Geographic Politics of Pynchon’s Mason & Dixon,”
in Elizabeth Jane Wall Hinds (ed.), The Multiple Worlds of Pynchon’s Mason
& Dixon: Eighteenth-Century Contexts, Postmodern Observations (New York:
Boydell & Brewer, 2005), pp. 101–24, p. 108.
2. Thomas Pynchon, “Is It O.K. to Be a Luddite?” New York Times Book Review,
October 28, 1984. New York Times on the Web. www.nytimes.com/books/97/
05/18/reviews/pynchon-luddite.html.
3. See Carl von Linnaeus, Systema Naturæ [Stockholm], 10th ed., 1758.
4. Steven M. Wise, Rattling the Cage: Toward Legal Rights for Animals
(New York: Perseus Books, 2000), p. 136.
5. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Émile, or Education, trans. Barbara Foxley
(New York: E. P. Dutton, 1921), p. 90. See also Rousseau, The Social Contract.
6. William Godwin, Enquiry concerning Political Justice and Its Influence on
Morals and Happiness (London: G. G. and J. Robinson, 1793, 1796, 1798).
7. Thomas Paine, Common Sense, 1776, Isaac Kramnick (ed.) (New York:
Penguin, 1986). See also Paine, The Age of Reason, Kerry Walters (ed.)
(Peterborough: Broadview Press, 2011).
8. Pynchon, “Luddite.”
9. Christopher Looby, “The Constitution of Nature: Taxonomy as Politics in
Jefferson, Peale, and Bartram,” Early American Literature, 22 (1987), 252–73.
10. Theodor W. Adorno and Max Horkheimer, Dialectic of Enlightenment, trans.
John Cumming (New York: Continuum, 1972), p. 4.
The Eighteenth Century 81
11. Alessia Ricciardi, “Lightness and Gravity: Calvino, Pynchon, and
Postmodernity,” Modern Language Notes, 114.5 (December 1999), 1062–77,
p. 1065.
12. Brian Thill, “The Sweetness of Immorality: Mason & Dixon and the
American Sins of Consumption,” in Multiple Worlds, pp. 49–75, p. 67.
13. Thill, ”Sweetness,” p. 56.
14. Louis Menand, “Entropology,” in New York Review of Books, 44.10, June 12,
1997, pp. 22–25, p. 25.
15. Adam Smith, An Enquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations,
5th ed. (London: A. Strahan, 1789).
chapter 10
If you read through all of Thomas Pynchon’s eight novels, David Kipen
has argued, they “fuse into one epic Pynchoverse, a crowded, panoramic
canvas of the republic, from its earliest colonial stirrings clear down to the
mounting, vertiginous terror of right now.”1 Pynchon’s “Yoknapatawpha
of American and Western civilization” seems, however, to have one big,
crucial historical hole, namely, the nineteenth century, the century that
saw a young, provincial republic become a powerful nation ready for its
imperialist overseas expansion.2 This is the reason why some Pynchon
aficionados (myself included) cherish the suspicion or hope that the reclu-
sive author may still have in store the last of his historical fictions, a novel
set in the nineteenth century that would constitute the final piece of his
huge puzzle. The rumor was spread by Salman Rushdie, who in his 1990
review of Vineland reported that a London magazine had announced “the
publication of a 900-page Pynchon megabook about the American Civil
War,” before he immediately dismissed it – “ho ho ho” – as an April fool’s
prank.3 Yet somehow the idea stuck.
Limiting the analysis to Pynchon’s actual, published works, one finds
several references to the nineteenth century. Against the Day (2006) opens
at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition, an epochal event that retro-
spectively marked the end of the Gilded Age – the period named after
Mark Twain’s satirical novel, published in 1873 with the subtitle: A Tale of
To-Day. Despite the popular (and basically correct) view of an age of
rapacious greed, political corruption, rampant speculations, and unfettered
capitalism, those were also years of technical innovation and economic
development; the Chicago World’s Fair – a spectacular display of indus-
trial, cultural, and scientific advancements – revealed American military
and technological supremacy to the world: The Fair’s buildings were
illuminated by 200,000 light bulbs, thanks to Nikola Tesla’s innovative
polyphase alternating-current system. Communication is another great
issue addressed in the novel: Characters are obsessed by the propagation
82
The Nineteenth Century 83
of energy and the voice through the Aether, and they continuously experi-
ment with several nineteenth-century types of communications – optical
and wireless communication, “communication by means of coal-gas” (AD
114), even an unlikely “telepathic communication” (AD 532).
The turn of the century was indeed a period of radical change for
American society: On July 12, 1893, Frederick Jackson Turner delivered
in Chicago his famous lecture on “The Significance of the Frontier in
American History,” reflecting on the closing of the frontier that brought an
end to the nation’s westward expansion. Both Tesla and Turner appear in
Against the Day as heralds of the modern age: “Here’s where the Trail
comes to its end at last,” declares a character about Turner’s speech, “along
with the American cowboy who used to live on it and by it” (AD 52).
The first part of Against the Day is set in the wild West, though, as
a character explains, “it may not be quite the West you’re expecting”
(AD 53). Back in 1965, Pynchon expressed his fascination with the multi-
faceted myth of the West in a review of Oakley Hall’s novel Warlock (1958),
describing Tombstone, Arizona, during the 1880s as “our national
Camelot; a never-never land” where nonetheless “what is called society,
with its law and order, is as frail, as precarious, as flesh and can be snuffed
out and assimilated back into the desert as easily as a corpse can.”4
Moreover, Against the Day also focuses on fin-de-siècle anarchism, terror-
ism, and revenge, the rise of capitalism and the desperate attempts to
counter it. Pynchon often uses anachronistic language and frequent refer-
ences to present times and situations, so as to encourage the reader to
experience current events from a backdated perspective.
Pynchon’s nineteenth-century references go way beyond the mere repre-
sentation of characters, settings, or situations. As Brian McHale brilliantly
demonstrated, “Pynchon appropriates the conventions and materials of
genres that flourished at the historical moments during which the events of
his story occur.”5 So, naturally enough, the dominant genres throughout
Against the Day’s first half are typical late-nineteenth-century ones such as
the boy-inventor story, the British school story, the dime-novel western,
the European spy fiction, and the adventure novel à la Stevenson; in fact,
Against the Day can be considered “a virtual library of entertainment
fiction.”6 According to McHale, Pynchon uses a “logic of synchronization”
to systematically demystify and complicate popular genres, in order to
“close the gap between the genre conventions . . . and what one imagines
the historical experience . . . must have been like.”7
In his 1984 essay “Is It O.K. to Be a Luddite?” Pynchon described Victor
Frankenstein’s creature in Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel as “a major literary
84 paolo simonetti
Badass,” the hero of any “Luddite novel,” if such a genre actually existed.
According to Pynchon, the Luddite movement, which “flourished in
Britain from about 1811 to 1816,” was composed by “bands of men,
organized, masked, anonymous,” who nevertheless were “trade unionist
ahead of their time”; they were praised even by Lord Byron, who called
them “Lutherans of politics.” In his essay, Pynchon provocatively sug-
gested that the whole Gothic fiction, as well as “the Methodist movement
and the American Great Awakening,” were all sectors “on a broad front of
resistance to the Age of Reason.”8
Nor does Pynchon restrict himself to the revision of popular genres; his
works resonate in various, unpredictable ways with some of the major
nineteenth-century literary figures. In his 1982 monograph Tony Tanner
related Pynchon’s reclusiveness to a “persistent strain in the writing of
American authors which reveals a suspicion of all kinds of ‘biography’ and
a growing hostility to ‘publicity’,” mentioning writers such as James
Fenimore Cooper, Emily Dickinson, and Henry James. In another pas-
sage, Tanner linked Pynchon’s interest in “plots and codes” to the works of
Edgar Allan Poe.9 In an essay published in 2001, meanwhile, David
Thoreen underlined some parallels between Vineland and Washington
Irving’s “Rip Van Winkle.”10
Ironically, Pynchon’s namesake appears in one of the most important
novels of the American Renaissance: In 1851, Reverend Thomas Ruggles
Pynchon (1823–1904), great-grand-uncle of the writer and rector of St. Paul’s
Church, Stockbridge, and Trinity Church, Lenox, picked an argument with
none other than Nathaniel Hawthorne; Pynchon claimed that the famous
author had used his surname in The House of the Seven Gables (1851) without
asking his permission, marring the good name of the family. Hawthorne
wrote him a letter of exculpation, declaring that he thought the field “was
clear of all genuine Pyncheons,” as the character’s name is spelled in the
novel, and assuring his correspondent that “the reputation of [his] family
can run no hazard of being tarnished by the novel.”11 In a letter to his
publisher, however, Hawthorne related the story in a different tone:
I have just received a letter from another claimant of the Pyncheon estate.
I wonder if ever, and how soon, I shall get at a just estimate of how many
jackasses there are in this ridiculous world. My correspondent, by the way,
estimates the number of these Pyncheon jackasses at about twenty; I am
doubtless to be remonstrated with by each individual. After exchanging
shots with all of them, I shall get you to publish the whole correspondence,
in a style corresponding with that of my other works; and I anticipate a great
run for the volume.12
The Nineteenth Century 85
Too bad Hawthorne never wrote such a “Pynchonian” book!
The towering nineteenth-century literary figure in Pynchon’s oeuvre is,
in any event, Herman Melville. Since the publication of V. (1963), critics
have often mentioned Melville and Pynchon as “the Great American
Novelists” by comparing the wide scope of their fiction: Both wrote big,
encyclopedic novels that changed the course of American literature and
disrupted the traditional literary conventions of their times. As early as
1976, Richard Poirier called Pynchon “the epitome of an American writer
out of the great classics of the nineteenth century – Hawthorne, Emerson,
and Melville especially.”13 Coincidentally, in the first of the Simpsons’
episodes in which Pynchon makes an appearance, Marge Simpson,
inspired by the framed picture of a boat entitled “Scene from Moby-Dick
,” decides to write a sea-novel very similar to Melville’s masterpiece.14 It was
later endorsed by Pynchon, though in an ironic way. Since we know that
Pynchon himself edited the script of the second Simpsons’ episode in which
he appeared, he may well have wanted to obliquely acknowledge Melville’s
influence on his work.15
There are striking similarities in Pynchon’s and Melville’s literary
careers: Both published early pieces in high-school or local newspapers
before taking to the sea; both had significant experiences on faraway
islands, and when they returned to the US they became writers (this is
probably one of the reasons why islands and ships abound in their works);
V. opens on Christmas Eve and ends with a sinking ship, paralleling the
voyage of the Pequod in Moby-Dick. Both writers created memorable
isolatoes – in Melville’s famous definition of the Pequod’s crew, mainly
composed of islanders “living on a separate continent” of their own, “not
acknowledging the common continent of men.”16 Very similarly, Pynchon
describes the “preterite” as “the many God passes over when he chooses
a few for salvation” (GR 555); both terms basically describe the same
condition of exclusion, intellectual solitude, and marginalization, referring
to outcasts alienated from the human community.
In a sense, the authorial personae Melville and Pynchon fashioned
for themselves resonate with their peculiar isolatoes: Both authors
strenuously defended their privacy, even if in doing so they must
have appeared rude or odd to acquaintances, friends, and relatives.
Though not a strictly reclusive author (he became so in his old age),
Melville hated publicity and disliked having his picture taken or
published. When his friend Evert Duyckinck asked him for an article
and a daguerreotype for publication in Holden’s Magazine, Melville
replied in a very Pynchonian way:
86 paolo simonetti
How shall a man go about refusing a man? – Best be roundabout, or plumb
on the mark? – I can not write you the thing you want . . . As for the
Daguerreotype . . . that’s what I can not send you, because I have none. And
if I had, I would not send it for such a purpose, even to you. – Pshaw! You
cry – & so cry I. . . . The fact is, almost everybody is having his “mug”
engraved nowadays; so that this test of distinction is getting to be reversed;
and therefore, to see one’s “mug” in a magazine, is presumptive evidence
that he’s a nobody.17
Years later, George Putnam himself – the New York publisher who had
published Melville’s later novels – asked him again for a daguerreotype,
offering to pay for a session. Melville’s reply is not much different from the
Pynchon’s caustic jokes we are familiar with: “About the Dagguerreotype
[sic], I don’t know a good artist in this rural neighborhood.”18
In their works, both writers metafictionally play with their authorial
personae: Pynchon in oblique ways, with inside jokes that in the Simpsons’
episode, for instance, become explicit parody; Melville more openly,
especially when he made the hero of Pierre a “juvenile author” and
described an encounter between Pierre and a magazine’s editor that is
eerily similar to the episodes of harassment periodically experienced by
Pynchon:19
“Good-morning, good-morning; – just the man I wanted: – come, step
round now with me, and have your Daguerreotype taken; – get it engraved
then in no time; – want it for the next issue.” So saying, this chief mate of
Captain Kidd seized Pierre’s arm, and in the most vigorous manner
was walking him off, like an officer a pickpocket, when Pierre civilly
said – “Pray, sir, hold, if you please, I shall do no such thing.” – “Pooh,
pooh – must have it – public property – come along – only a door or two
now.” – “Public property!’’ rejoined Pierre, . . . I beg to repeat that I do not
intend to accede.” – “Don’t? Really?” cried the other, amazedly staring
Pierre full in the countenance.20
Notes
1. David Kipen, “David Kipen’s Great American Novel: The Works of Thomas
Pynchon,” Los Angeles Times, June 30, 2016.
2. David Cowart, Thomas Pynchon and the Dark Passages of History (Athens, GA:
University of Georgia Press, 2011), p. 167.
3. Salman Rushdie, “Still Crazy After All These Years: Vineland by Thomas
Pynchon,” New York Times Book Review, January 14, 1990, p. 1.
4. Thomas Pynchon, “A Gift of Books,” Holiday 38, 6 (December 1965), pp.
164–65.
5. Brian McHale, “Genre as History: Pynchon’s Genre-Poaching,” in
Jeffrey Severs and Christopher Leise (eds.), Pynchon’s Against the Day.
A Corrupted Pilgrim’s Guide (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press,
2011), pp. 15–28, p. 19.
6. McHale, “Genre,” p. 20.
88 paolo simonetti
7. McHale, “Genre,” pp. 21, 23.
8. Thomas Pynchon, “Is It O.K. to Be a Luddite?” New York Times Book Review,
October 28, 1984, pp. 1, 40–41, pp. 40, 41.
9. Tony Tanner, Thomas Pynchon (London: Methuen, 1982), pp. 12, 22.
10. David Thoreen, “Thomas Pynchon’s Political Parable: Parallels between
Vineland and ‘Rip Van Winkle,’” ANQ: A Quarterly Journal of Short
Articles, Notes and Reviews, 14.3, 45–50.
11. Thomas Woodson, L. Neal Smith, and Norman Holmes Pearson (eds.),
The Centenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne, Vol. XVI,
The Letters, 1843–1853 (Columbus, OH: Ohio State University Press, 1985),
p. 446.
12. Woodson, Smith, and Holmes, Letters, p. 443.
13. Richard Poirier, “The Importance of Thomas Pynchon,” in George Levine
and David Leverenz (eds.), Mindful Pleasures. Essays on Thomas Pynchon
(Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1976), pp. 15–29, p. 29.
14. The Simpsons, “Diatribe of a Mad Housewife,” first aired May 31, 2005.
15. Michael Calia, “Read Thomas Pynchon’s Script Edits for The Simpsons,” Wall
Street Journal, August 29, 2014.
16. Herman Melville, Moby-Dick, or, The Whale (Harmondsworth: Penguin,
1992), p. 131.
17. Lynn Horth (ed.), The Writings of Herman Melville. Vol. XIV, Correspondence
(Evanston and Chicago, IL: Northwestern University Press and
The Newberry Library, 1993), p. 180.
18. Horth, Correspondence, p. 261.
19. See P. Simonetti, “Portraits of the Artist as an Undergraduate Prankster:
Images of Youth in Pynchon’s Writing,” in Bénédicte Chorier-Fryd and
Gilles Chamerois (eds.), Thomas Pynchon (Montpellier: Presses
Universitaires de la Méditerranée, 2013), pp. 193–222, pp. 193–94.
20. Herman Melville, Pierre; or, The Ambiguities (New York: Harper & Brothers,
1852), p. 346.
21. Thomas Pynchon, “Nearer, My Couch, to Thee,” New York Times Book
Review, June 6, 1993, pp. 3, 57, p. 57.
22. Herman Melville, Typee: A Peep at Polynesian Life (New York: Wiley &
Putnam, 1846), p. 229.
23. John Bryant, Melville & Repose: The Rhetoric of Humor in the American
Renaissance (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), pp. 178–79.
24. Bryant, Melville, p. 4.
chapter 11
Notes
1. George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four, “Foreword” by Thomas Pynchon
(New York: Plume/Harcourt Brace, 2003), pp. 258, 279.
2. Terry Reilly remarked on Pynchon borrowing the title Slow Learner from
Orwell’s novel but goes no further. See Reilly, “A Couple-Three Bonzos:
‘Introduction,’ Slow Learner, and 1984,” Pynchon Notes, 44–45 (1999), 8.
On Winston Smith’s diary: Nineteen Eighty-Four, pp. 7–8.
3. Thomas Pynchon, “Is It O.K. to Be a Luddite?” New York Times Book Review,
October 28, 1984, pp. 1, 40–41; C. P. Snow, The Two Cultures (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1959).
4. Pynchon, “Foreword” to Nineteen Eighty-Four, pp. xvi–xviii, p. xv.
5. Johnny Copeland’s “Every Dog’s Got His Day” was the A-side of a 1971 Kent
records 45 RPM disc – now a rarity. The track was reprised on several 33 RPM
discs, equally rare. Pynchon’s alternate phrasing, “Every dog has his day,”
suggests he knew another bluesman’s rendition.
6. On “Garden Plot” see Luc Herman and Steven Weisenburger, Gravity’s
Rainbow, Domination, and Freedom (Athens, GA: University of Georgia
Press, 2013), pp. 67–68. On the April 1984 “REX 84” see Christian Smith,
Resisting Reagan (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1996), pp. 310–18.
96 steven weisenburger
7. Pynchon, “Foreword” to Nineteen Eighty-Four, p. xxi.
8. For example, Jonathan Lethem, “Pynchonopolis,” New York Times,
September 12, 2013; Michiko Kakutani, “A Calamity Tailor-Made for
Internet Conspiracy Theories, A 9/11 Novel by Thomas Pynchon,” New York
Times, September 10, 2013. “1984” (Dir. Ridley Scott: Fairbanks Films, 90
seconds), widely available online.
9. Hanjo Berressem, “. . . without shame or concern for etymology: 11 September
in Thomas Pynchon’s Bleeding Edge,” Electronic Book Review (August 3, 2014),
www.electronicbookreview.com/thread/fictionspresent/bleeding
chapter 12
Of the three novels Thomas Pynchon has published so far in the twenty-
first century – Against the Day (2006), which begins with the Chicago
World’s Fair in 1893 and ends just after World War I, Inherent Vice (2009),
set in late 1960s California, and Bleeding Edge (2013) – only the last takes
place, like his earlier The Crying of Lot 49 (1966), in a contemporary setting.
It fictionalizes the period around September 11, 2001, “The Day Everything
Changed” (BE 378), and brings us up to date, for if we place Pynchon’s
novels in chronological order of the periods covered in the plot, they
encompass almost the whole trajectory of US history since just before
Independence. Pynchon’s novels employ the major events, even if
approached tangentially or on a small, often insignificant scale, along
with the genres of the period in which the plot is set, as well as myriad
subgenres and discourses.1 They continue in the vein of his earlier work of
postmodern perspectivism, with its skepticism toward metanarratives.
One thing these three novels have in common is that they are overtly
about investigation, whether it be espionage, as with the Chums of Chance
in Against the Day, or the work of detectives like Larry “Doc” Sportello in
Inherent Vice and Maxine Tarnow in Bleeding Edge. Inherent Vice can be
considered a parody of the detective novel and an indulgence on Pynchon’s
part in hippie nostalgia. Maxine is a decertified, Jewish fraud investigator,
who continues to work independently from her own detective agency.
The Russian spies, Misha and Grisha, of Against the Day, also appear in
Bleeding Edge, so as with Against the Day and Vineland (1990) we have
connections to earlier work through characters, as if Pynchon is setting up
a small world within the global view he creates.
He includes a momentous and unexplained occurrence about two-
thirds of the way through most of his novels: “some significant or well-
known event” or (as David Auerbach calls it) “decoherence event,” as “our
working models of reality cease to function together.”2 In Against the Day it
was the Tunguska Event of 1908; here it is obviously 9/11, which happened
97
98 celia wallhead
three-quarters of the way through the calendar year, and the account of
which comes three-quarters of the way through Bleeding Edge – as if to
equate the decline of the year with the nation’s decline in some (particu-
larly moral) respects, thereby supporting Kathryn Hume’s argument that
Pynchon surprised his readers by expressing unusually strong personal
views, perhaps in “desperation over the course America was taking.”3
To what extent, however, is Pynchon’s latest novel, upon which we will
concentrate, a stylistic or thematic departure from his earlier work?
Notes
1. See Brian McHale, “Genre as History: Pynchon’s Genre-Poaching,” in
Jeffrey Severs and Christopher Leise (eds.), Pynchon’s Against the Day.
A Corrupted Pilgrim’s Guide (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press,
2011), pp. 15–28, p. 19.
2. Michael Chabon, “The Crying of September 11,” New York Review of Books,
November 7, 2013; David Auerbach, “Review: Thomas Pynchon’s Bleeding
Edge,” The American Reader, September 17, 2013 theamericanreader.com/rev
iew-thomas-pynchons-bleeding-edge/.
3. Kathryn Hume, “The Religious and Political Vision of Pynchon’s Against
the Day,” Philological Quarterly, 86, 1–2 (Winter 2007), 163–87, p. 164.
4. For studies of the “psychic/personal” or the “cultural/collective” approaches,
see Sonia Baelo-Allué, “9/11 and the Psychic Trauma Novel: Don DeLillo’s
Falling Man,” Atlantis, 34.1 (2012), 63–79; and Juanjo Bermúdez de Castro,
Rewriting Terror: The 9/11 Terrorists in American Fiction (Alcalá de Henares:
Universidad de Alcalá, Servicio de Publicaciones, 2012).
5. Report of the National Commission on Terrorist Attacks upon the United
States, 2004, www.9-11commission.gov/report/.
6. Linda Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction
(London: Routledge, 1988); Patricia Waugh, Metafiction: The Theory and
Practice of Self-Conscious Fiction (London: Routledge, 1984).
7. Chabon, “The Crying of September 11,” p. 12.
8. Francisco Collado-Rodríguez, “Intratextuality, Trauma, and the Posthuman
in Thomas Pynchon’s Bleeding Edge,” Critique: Studies in Contemporary
Fiction, 57.3 (2016), 229–41, p. 230.
9. Collado-Rodríguez, “Intratextuality,” 229.
10. Joseph Darlington, “Capitalist Mysticism and the Historicizing of 9/11 in
Thomas Pynchon’s Bleeding Edge,” Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction,
57.3 (2016), 242–53, p. 242.
The Twenty-First Century 103
11. Roger Rosenblatt, “The Age of Irony Comes to an End,” Time, September 24,
2001.
12. See Justin St Clair, “Pynchon’s Postmodern Legacy, or Why Irony Is Still
Relevant. Review of Bleeding Edge by Thomas Pynchon,” Los Angeles Review
of Books, September 21, 2013; Martin Paul Eve, Literature Against Criticism:
University English and Contemporary Fiction in Conflict (Cambridge: Open
Book Publishers, 2016).
chapter 13
Ludic Historiography
Pastiche (the clever imitation, often satirical or subversive, of some familiar
genre or style) plays an important part in Pynchon’s heteroclite historio-
graphy; thus he incorporates, sometimes at book length, versions of the
prose characteristic of the period being recreated. As Brian McHale
describes this practice, “Pynchon appropriates the conventions and mate-
rials of genres that flourished at the historical moments during which the
events of the story occur. His genre-poaching is synchronized with the
unfolding chronology of his storyworld.”8 A master of postmodern pas-
tiche, Pynchon gives his readers John Buchan-style agents and settings in
V.; a parody of seventeenth-century revenge drama in The Crying of Lot 49;
and, in Gravity’s Rainbow, a narrative of the 1940s that unspools as a movie
and breathes the cinematic conventions of that period. As McHale has
pointed out, recreations of Tom Swift-type boys’ stories figure prominently
in Against the Day – a novel whose temporal settings include the early
twentieth century, which saw such stories become popular. Mason &
Dixon, set in the eighteenth century, observes that era’s orthography and
narrative conventions throughout its great length (by way of reminding
readers of the ludic element in this exercise, the author peppers the text
with artfully disguised anachronism: references to Popeye, Daffy Duck,
Star Trek, and Madison Avenue’s Jolly Green Giant).
Another feature of historicizing as practiced by Pynchon is his
penchant for twinned temporal settings. His plots often unfold in
parallel: a present in 1984, say, and a past twenty or so years earlier
(this is Vineland, from 1990) or a present just after the American
Revolution and a past, again, some decades earlier (this is the schema
of Mason & Dixon, from 1997). V., too, unfolds along a double tem-
poral axis, one plot line set in the novel’s present (1956–1957), the other
tracing global events forward from 1880 to 1943. Compounding the
History and Metahistory 109
complexity of historical imagining, a more remote temporal setting –
again, that of Mason & Dixon – reveals itself as seed of a later historical
climacteric: The surveying of the Mason-Dixon Line augurs the terrible
civil war a century thereafter. Elsewhere, the past functions as minatory
mirror of the present. Thus the 2006 novel Against the Day (whose
global action ranges from 1893 to 1923) tends to allegorize an era – our
own – at a distance, again, of a hundred years. In promotional copy for
this novel, its temporal setting is characterized as “a time of un-
restrained corporate greed, false religiosity, moronic fecklessness, and
evil intent in high places. No reference to the present day is intended or
should be inferred.” (The ironic last sentence was later dropped, as
perhaps giving too much away.) Here, too, Pynchon invokes with some
frequency “the doubly-refracting calcite known as Iceland spar” (AD
114), a crystal through which, strangely, one sees things twice.
As recurrent “image,” it complements doubled characters and plot
elements – all, evidently, in service to an idea of history itself twinned.
Pynchon was not always so committed to preterite temporality. Nearly
all of his short stories feature settings in the present (the exception is
“Under the Rose,” which, modified, would become part of V.). But since
the stories all date from the earliest part of Pynchon’s career (late 1950s and
early 1960s), they, too, have acquired an historical patina, if only as
documentation of mid-century material culture. The one novel that is
strictly contemporaneous with its publication (set in 1964, published in
1966) is The Crying of Lot 49, but this text, too, lends itself to reflections on
Pynchon’s historicizing. Its central conceit concerns a clandestine postal
system, the Trystero, which has supposedly existed in the shadows for
centuries. More than one character engages in historical research, and the
reader encounters set pieces that range from deft imitations of 1930s cinema
and Jacobean drama to accounts of long-ago clashes between agents of
Trystero and rival postal couriers (those of Thurn and Taxis in the Old
World, those of the Pony Express in the New). More importantly, perhaps,
Lot 49 is the first of a series of fictions set in the 1960s, a kind of American
hinge decade – especially to those who (like Pynchon and his first readers)
lived through it. As Lot 49 is now experienced as historical documentation
for many born too late to experience the 1960s firsthand (and for those
who, as the old joke goes, experienced them so well as not to remember
anything), so do Vineland and Inherent Vice (2009) (the other volumes in
the California saga) take on more and more historical gravitas – no matter
how madcap their action. The difference, of course, is that, with the
passage of time, the temporal setting of these fictions now figures in the
110 david cowart
national imaginary as documentation of the past (or, more accurately, its
affect). This is history indeed.
Pynchon also historicizes the sequent toil of science, one paradigm
succeeding another, reality itself repeatedly reframed and redefined.
As a John Donne could contrast Copernican and Ptolemaic astronomy
early in the seventeenth century, so Pynchon depicts, in Gravity’s Rainbow,
the displacement of Newtonian physics (one character embraces Pavlovian
psychomechanics) by relativity and the mathematics of probability
(another character plots Poisson distribution graphs). Mason & Dixon
dramatizes, among other things, the Enlightenment’s elbowing aside of
magical thinking in all its guises. Charles Mason, an astronomer, finds it
difficult to give up fantasies of his lost wife’s communicating with him
from beyond the veil. Jeremiah Dixon is obliged, in a kind of dream
sequence, to perpend the fate of elves, fairies, and other imaginary beings,
their habitat progressively eroded by the triumph of scientific reason,
echoing the lament of Edgar Allan Poe’s “Sonnet – To Science,” which
elegized the vestiges of supernaturalism in the eighteenth century.
Blending Poe and Thomas Kuhn (author of The Structure of Scientific
Revolutions, a book contemporaneous with Pynchon’s first novel), the
author of Mason & Dixon moralizes what may be the greatest conceptual
paradigm shift in Western history.
A Faulkner character says that “[t]he past is never dead. It’s not even
past.”9 As understood and realized on the page by Pynchon, this insight
reminds us of the perennial legitimacy of fictions that strive to represent that
past. Such fictions, at their best, uncover the manifold ways in which a more
or less remote history breathes through and shapes a more proximate past or,
indeed, the present. One recognizes the “bleeding edge” of this enterprise in
the work of historicizing novelists such as Thomas Pynchon. Via postcolo-
nial and metahistorical orientations, then, Pynchon emphasizes perspectivist
historiography. In one novel, twinned plots unfold along parallel historical
axes; in another, the past mirrors our present. He imitates genres appropriate
to or associated with the historical period he depicts. Most importantly,
perhaps, he historicizes epistemic paradigm shifts. In self-referring texts that
interrogate every received historical premise, this author calibrates and
recalibrates the very grammar of metahistory.
Notes
1. Johannes Buno, Historia universalis (1672), quoted in John Eliot Gardiner,
Bach: Music in the Castle of Heaven (New York: Knopf, 2013).
History and Metahistory 111
2. The Eliade phrase is the title of Chapter Four of The Myth of the Eternal Return
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1954).
3. Henry James, The Selected Letters of Henry James, Leon Edel (ed.) (New York:
Farrar, Straus, and Cudahy, 1955), pp. 202–03.
4. E. L. Doctorow, “The Art of Fiction,” No. 94 (interview with George
Plimpton), Paris Review, 28.101 (Winter 1986), 23–47, p. 33.
5. Thomas Pynchon, “Words for Ian McEwan,” Daily Telegraph, December 6,
2006, p. 17. I do not find this exact phrase in Ruskin; I believe Pynchon is
echoing Denis Donoghue’s characterization of Ruskin’s thought in Speaking of
Beauty (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2003), p. 160.
6. Jean-François Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge,
trans. Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi (Minneapolis, MN: University
of Minnesota Press, 1984), p. xxiv.
7. Paul Fussell, The Great War and Modern Memory (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1975), p. 328.
8. Brian McHale, “Genre as History: Genre-Poaching in Against the Day,” Genre,
42.3–4 (2009), 5–20, p. 10.
9. William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun (1951, New York: Vintage, 2012), p. 73.
part ii
Culture, Politics, and Society
chapter 14
Family
Mark Rohland
During the family reunion in Vineland (1990) that resolves the novel’s
action, protagonist daughter Prairie Wheeler notes she is “[f]eeling totally
familied out” (VL 374). After finishing Pynchon’s novels, especially those
after Gravity’s Rainbow (1973), readers, too, could feel totally familied out.
The adventures of a variety of families and family-like groups are impor-
tant in each novel. However, this significance has been overlooked by
scholarly readers – understandably, with so much else of academic interest
to puzzle out in the books. Pynchon’s “decentered subjectivity,” well
described by McHale, has caused readers to attend to unusual, “postmo-
dern” aspects of Pynchon’s fiction at the expense of traditional aspects such
as families.1 Yet the early novels feature children and neglectful parents,
and in the novels after Gravity’s Rainbow, families become increasingly
central and noticeable. The action from Vineland on often illustrates
troubled families remedying their troubles. Families or family-like groups
(such as cults) appear in all Pynchon’s main plots, even when family
members are conspicuous by various forms of absence. Ongoing thematic
concerns of Pynchon’s like alienation, the attraction to death, the perils of
science, the power of history, and the limits of knowledge are expressed
through parents and children. The following reviews the secondary litera-
ture on families in Pynchon, surveys specific instances of families, considers
the significance of Pynchon’s families for his vision of American culture,
and examines families in relation to pedagogy.
Although the secondary literature on Pynchon has paid little attention
to families, there have been significant exceptions. David Leverenz recog-
nizes “the betrayal, especially of children by parents” in the early work;
Strother Purdy finds a “culture of childhood” in the Zone of Gravity’s
Rainbow; N. Katherine Hayles’ analysis of kinship in Vineland recognizes
“Prairie’s search for her absent mother” as the novel’s “framing narrative”;
and Bernard Duyfhuizen examines some difficulties in interpreting child
abuse in Gravity’s Rainbow.2 More recent attention to families is paid in
115
116 mark rohland
Scott McClintock’s examination of Pynchon’s “valorization of the senti-
mental and the family,” and in Simon Malpas and Andrew Taylor’s
connection of the Traverse family in Against the Day (2006) with the
“shapes of anarchism.”3 Although these observations on families show
that they enrich the action and themes of the novels, family figures none-
theless remain minor actors in the secondary literature. The increasing
salience of families in the recent novels suggests that families deserve more
scholarly attention. Pynchon’s families put to rest the long-held notion
that traditional character development is not important in his work.4
A survey of examples of families in Pynchon demonstrates their
importance.
“The Secret Integration” in Slow Learner (1984) presents circumstances
repeated in V. (1963), The Crying of Lot 49 (1966), and Gravity’s Rainbow:
a group of children functioning as an alternative family, ungoverned by
adults, but with the brainiac Grover acting in loco parentis. The parents
simply missing from that story become more strikingly present in V. as
elusive or abusive figures (V 379). Stencil searches his troubled memory and
the world for signs of his father’s mysterious death and for signs of V., who
could be his mother. Paola, a refugee from war-ruined Malta, has left her
father, Fausto. In his confessions Paola appears among a group of war-
orphaned and neglected children. Further, overt child abuse by guardians,
to be pictured elaborately in Gravity’s Rainbow, appears in V. That mys-
terious lady exercises sadistic and prurient control over the young Parisian
dancer Mélanie, who has no protector but V. A novel in ruins, V. is easier
to make sense of if one attends to the ruined parent-child relations in it.
On the shoulders of its metaphysical road to the unknown, The Crying of
Lot 49 features absence of and trouble with family. Oedipa seeks in the
Tristero an alternative family and fails to find it. Like many early Pynchon
protagonists, she lacks a familial context. She is estranged from her phi-
landering husband Mucho, and she has no family of origin. Nevertheless
her name recalls primal family relations and invites the reader to see her as
an archetypal daughter. During her wanderings, she witnesses children
who are figures of both abuse and promise. Fictional children suffer before
her eyes: The comically “kasher[ed]” Baby Igor (CL 29) is a version of the
tragically murdered Niccolò, both done in by malevolent father figures.
Other, real children she meets stand for both freedom from parental
control and the longing for family. She comes across “a circle of children
in their nightclothes, who told her they were dreaming the gathering,”
enjoying “inside their circle an imaginary fire, and need[ing] nothing but
their own unpenetrated sense of community,” free from parents who with
Family 117
their troubles often penetrate violently the lives of children in Pynchon (CL
118). Oedipa also meets a “child roaming the night who missed the death
before birth as certain outcasts do the dear lulling blankness of the com-
munity” (CL 123). Oedipa is herself a child roaming the night, lacking the
familial guidance granted characters in later novels, and longing for but
failing to find it in the “community” of the Tristero.
The representation of families in Gravity’s Rainbow is much darker.
Pynchon portrays some shocking sadistic relations between children or
infantilized adults and dominating parental figures. Most salient are the
relations between several young people and the mad, nightmarish father
and mother of the novel, Blicero and Greta Erdmann. Blicero “plays” the
Oven Game, a sadistic enactment of “Hansel and Gretel,” with an infanti-
lized Katje and Gottfried. Blicero has another sadistic relationship with
Gottfried. In total control of the young man’s life and death inside the
rocket, Blicero functions as a wicked father. Indeed Blicero’s rocket is at the
center of both the novel and of the child abuse that runs through it.
Nothing can protect children from the gravity of the rocket and its master
Blicero. Greta, his partner in crime, has killed Jewish children in her
manifestation as the Shekinah, and becomes an abusive mother in the
most disturbing example of child abuse in the novel, the sexual abuse of her
young daughter Bianca. This abuse is perhaps real, perhaps imaginary, but
in either case it is lavishly detailed.5 Bianca is victimized in various perverse
ways by her mother, Slothrop, and others. As another child unprotected by
family, she dies in sad and repulsive circumstances. Child abuse in Gravity’s
Rainbow is not limited to Greta and Blicero. The relationship of Pökler
and his daughter Ilse becomes incestuous, and Slothrop has sex with
underage girls. The novel’s action originates in the experimental abuse of
infant Slothrop by his “Pernicious Pop,” which attracts him irresistibly to
rockets, danger, and sexual perversion. Slothrop’s attractions pave the way
for much exuberant comedy and drama, and the point that they begin in
parentally condoned child abuse can be missed. On the whole, Gravity’s
Rainbow presents a world without family benevolence that endangers
children.
In Vineland, an older Pynchon turns to richer, more benign portrayals of
families in the Wheelers and the Gateses. A notable change is that parents
become less villainous and more embodied creations. Zoyd Wheeler and
Frenesi may not be very effective parents, but they influence their child, as
she struggles to understand her family history, for the better. For the first
time an absent parent has a detailed portrayal, as Frenesi’s tale is uncovered
and interpreted by her daughter, Prairie. Vineland also introduces family
118 mark rohland
connections over multiple generations through the portrayal of Frenesi’s
parents, the Gateses, who have cinematic and political interests like hers.
The work ends in a family reunion in which the estranged Wheelers
tentatively connect and demonstrate that family is a counterforce to the
authorities that destroyed Frenesi’s dream of political freedom. The world
may be unfree and destructive, but the family in Vineland carries instances
of freedom and creation. Vineland portrays intergenerational understand-
ing that doesn’t replace the intergenerational conflict of the earlier work
but mitigates it.
In Mason & Dixon (1997), families return to the periphery of Pynchon’s
concerns, but they continue to appear as positive counters to the negatives
drawn by the Line. Charles Clerc points out that domestic conflicts “figure
prominently,” including “Charles Mason Sr.’s disagreeableness with his
family, especially his vitriolic treatment of his son.”6 Domestic life haunts
the peripatetic Mason in the form of memories of his dead wife Rebekah.
The ribald Vroom sisters provide the surveyors with a temporary and
tempting household. Another bad father appears in forefather George
Washington. Pynchon hilariously portrays him as earthy, throwing one
of his many barbs at the pious view of ancestors that makes American and
personal history hard to understand. Perhaps the key family presence is the
novel’s framing device, in which Reverend Cherrycoke tells the tales of
Mason and Dixon to his young nephews and niece. The entire novel can be
seen as teaching children when not to take adults too seriously, and where –
as in Mason’s feelings for Rebekah – virtue lies in the world of their parents
and of earlier generations.
In Against the Day, families dominate the scene. History is narrated as
family history, as if its effects on families are what is most important about
it. In the novel’s profusion of family narratives, central are the tales of the
Traverses, a multigenerational family saga. In the Traverse tales we see the
violence of familial relations from the early novels transformed into famil-
ial resistance to violence and domination, epitomized by the tycoon
Scarsdale Vibe. Especially interesting is the story of the Traverse sons’
revenge. The brothers come together to seek revenge, loyal to their father
and each other. The revenge tale initiates, paradoxically, a complex set of
tales in which the Traverses struggle, however violently, to stay together
and true to the family’s values. Another set of stories focuses on Dahlia,
whose birth in marital conflict creates the sentimental narrative of her
childhood with the benevolent substitute father Merle, followed by
reunion with her estranged mother and her stepfamily, followed by
a sojourn in Venice where she is taken into a noble household, followed
Family 119
eventually by a marriage to Kit Traverse that forms a new family.
The household of Princess Spongiatosta is a safe house for Dahlia, much as
T.W.I.T. headquarters are for Yashmeen. Such alternative family settings
appear most strikingly as the airship Inconvenience of the Chums of
Chance. This family of eternal boys battles adult villains who would
dominate the world, and they bicker like sibling rivals. By their heroics,
they definitively reverse the hitherto dominant sign of the child as victim.
Whether biological or assembled by choice or chance, the families of
Against the Day clarify Pynchon’s developed view of the family as
a counterforce.
In Inherent Vice (2009), families continue to enjoy a prominent role.
The protagonist Doc Sportello, as is condign to the 1960s setting, treats all
he meets as family, even some of his enemies. The novel counterbalances
typical Pynchon villainy with Doc’s lighthearted “smile on your brother”
attitude that makes this California novel a comic contrast to the solemn
The Crying of Lot 49. Though not a family man himself, Doc has an aunt
and a nephew who help him in his detective work. That work leads him to
investigate a criminal family, the Wolfmanns, and rescue an innocent one,
the Harlingens. The reunion of strung-out and cult-manipulated Coy
Harlingen with his wife and daughter is central to the investigation and
the novel. The Manson “family,” a current event in the book, is countered
by Doc’s kind of family, where Mansonian ego is trumped by the large-
heartedness that Pynchon now associates with commitment and connec-
tion to families.
Bleeding Edge (2013), too, is a family-focused novel. It begins with
a family scene, Maxine taking her children to school, and throughout
portrays her crime investigation as connected with her family troubles.
Her adulterous relationship with the menacing Windust is related to her
estrangement from her husband Horst. Maxine’s family – Horst, her
children, and her parents – brings her comfort and help in her investiga-
tion. Remarkable in Bleeding Edge is the proportion of the narrative taken
up with “normal” family events, such as holidays and vacations. Her
family, though troubled, is a realistically portrayed counterforce to the
conspiratorial menace she tracks. Pynchon again pits larger forces of
villainy against family, with the latter retaining a great deal of power.
Familial love makes things as good as they get in a terrifying world.
On September 10, 2001, the Loeffler-Tarnow parents and children go
out for pizza, a favorite activity before the parental estrangement. This
quotidian eat-out, “Maxine supposes, you could call family tradition, not
specially admirable, but hell, she’ll take it” (BE 315). Just before much goes
120 mark rohland
down for the United States and for her, Maxine here expresses Pynchon’s
most recent attitude toward family. It’s what keeps us up, whatever goes
down.
Pynchon shows the American family menaced throughout an
expanse of its history by misgovernment, war, corporate greed, crime,
and plain human vice. Both the realistic and the exaggerated families in
the novels show the way families are and have been in this country,
and that way passes through many minefields. Pynchon shows family
isolation and conflict in many guises, countering the American ideol-
ogy of the “normal” family. So integral to novels and other fictions are
families that we think we know the latter thoroughly. As Barry McCrea
states, “[n]arrative and family both . . . organize the unknowable jum-
ble of events and people who preceded us into a coherent array of
precedence, sequence, and cause.”7 Yet Pynchon shows us that families
are not just those we know from novels and screens. He works to
destroy the notion that there is “a” family that one could define. If the
Chums of Chance are a family, and are even more richly portrayed
than, say, the classy Stencils, a family is an odder, broader, and more
complicated thing than one expects. Pynchon’s family, like so much in
America, is an invention, a fiction created and creative, for better or
worse. The Wheelers or the Loeffler-Tarnows are recognizably
American, full of strife but free to evade the menacing agendas of
powers at higher levels of the social order, simply by being different
and resistant.
Beyond these considerations, a significant reason for attention to
Pynchon’s families is pedagogical. Student readers can use the familial
elements of his fiction as means of connecting to the characters and action.
Families are something we can of course all “relate to.” Adolescents
especially are responsive to the familial aspects of novels when they are
pointed out. Freshman writing commonly begins in autobiography, and
students encouraged to see their own lives in those of an Oedipa or a Prairie
can gain insight into the human and historical conditions the novels
propose and into their own conditions in a similar, if less zany, society.
Moreover, discussion among students of family relations in his work can
serve as an entry point to discussion of larger points that Pynchon is
making. Families are broken, imperfect, and hard to keep together in
Pynchon, and in the world we live in human relations are similarly decrepit
at many levels. The villainy that threatens so many family figures in
Pynchon differs from that which immediately threatens readers, surely,
but perhaps only by a factor of hyperbole. Families allow students to begin
Family 121
with the familiar and move to more sophisticated understandings of the
complexities in Pynchon, and serve as useful points of entry for teaching.
Finally, one can see families in Pynchon as one can see those in science
fiction series such as Dr. Who or Star Wars. They carry development of
character and action but get much less attention than his special effects
(Byron the Bulb and so forth) and his sensational, panoramic plots and
settings. Pynchon’s readers, like Whovians and fans of the Force, can
benefit from attending more carefully to the families affected by the
exciting episodes. His readers will find mothers, fathers, children, siblings,
grandparents, and many characters who can be taken for family. And they
will find them enlightening. His families take us to the basis of Pynchon’s
tentative solutions to the human problems he so teemingly elaborates.
Notes
1. Brian McHale, “Pynchon’s Postmodernism,” in Inger H. Dalsgaard,
Luc Herman, and Brian McHale (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to
Thomas Pynchon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), pp. 99–100.
2. David Leverenz, “On Trying to Read Gravity’s Rainbow,” in George Levine
and David Leverenz (eds.), Mindful Pleasures: Essays on Thomas Pynchon
(Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1976), p. 235; Strother Purdy,
“Gravity’s Rainbow and the Culture of Childhood,” Pynchon Notes, 22–23
(1988), 7–23; N. Katherine Hayles, “‘Who Was Saved?’: Families, Snitches,
and Recuperation in Pynchon’s Vineland,” in Geoffrey Green, Donald J.
Greiner, and Larry McCaffery (eds.), The Vineland Papers: Critical Takes on
Pynchon’s Novel (Normal, IL: Dalkey Archive Press, 1994), p. 14;
Bernard Duyfhuizen, “‘A Suspension Forever at the Hinge of Doubt’:
The Reader-Trap of Bianca in Gravity’s Rainbow,” Journal of Interdisciplinary
Thought on Contemporary Cultures, 2.1 (1991), 1–23.
3. Scott McClintock, “The Origins of the Family, Private Property, and the State
of California in Pynchon’s Fiction,” in Scott McClintock and John Miller
(eds.), Pynchon’s California (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2014), p. 91;
Simon Malpas and Andrew Taylor, Thomas Pynchon (Manchester: Manchester
University Press, 2013), p. 94.
4. See Edward Mendelson, “Gravity’s Encyclopedia,” in Levine and Leverenz
(eds.), Mindful Pleasures, pp. 179–80.
5. Duyfhuizen, “‘Suspension,’” 1–23.
6. Charles Clerc, Mason & Dixon & Pynchon (Lanham, MD: University Press of
America, 2000), p. 97.
7. Barry McCrea, In the Company of Strangers: Family and Narrative in Dickens,
Conan Doyle, Joyce, and Proust (New York: Columbia University Press, 2011),
p. 8.
chapter 15
Notes
1. Thomas Pynchon, Uncompleted Manuscript of Minstrel Island [1958]. Harry
Ransom Humanities Research Center, The University of Texas at Austin, p. 2
2. Pynchon, Uncompleted Manuscript of Minstrel Island, p. 3[b]/4.
3. Robert Holton, “‘Closed Circuit’: The White Male Predicament in Pynchon’s
Early Stories,” in Niran Abbas (ed.), Thomas Pynchon: Reading from
The Margins (Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2003), pp.
37–50; Molly Hite, “When Pynchon Was a Boys’ Club: V. and mid-century
Mystifications of Gender,” in Ali Chetwynd, Joanna Freer, and
Georgios Maragos (eds.), Thomas Pynchon, Sex, and Gender (Athens, GA:
University of Georgia Press, 2018).
Sex and Gender 129
4. Pynchon, Uncompleted Manuscript of Minstrel Island, p. 4.
5. Mary Allen, The Necessary Blankness: Women in Major American Fiction of the
Sixties (Urbana and Chicago, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1976), pp. 37–51.
6. Thomas Pynchon, Untitled typescript of V. [1961] Harry Ransom Humanities
Research Center, The University of Texas at Austin, p. 451.
7. Pynchon, Untitled typescript of V., p. 628.
8. Pynchon, Untitled typescript of V., p. 457.
9. See Luc Herman and John Krafft, “Pynchon and Gender: A View from the
Typescript of V.,” in Chetwynd et al. (eds.), Thomas Pynchon.
10. For discussion of such engagement, see Molly Hite, “Feminist Theory and the
Politics of Vineland,” in Geoffrey Green, Donald J. Greiner, and
Larry McCaffery (eds.), The Vineland Papers (Normal, IL: Dalkey Archive
Press, 1994), pp. 135–53. See also Joanna Freer, Thomas Pynchon and American
Counterculture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), pp. 126–56.
11. Luc Herman and Steven Weisenburger, Gravity’s Rainbow, Domination, and
Freedom (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2013).
12. Simon Cook, “Manson chicks and microskirted cuties: pornification in
Thomas Pynchon’s Inherent Vice,” Textual Practice 29.6 (2015), 1143–64.
13. Pynchon, Untitled typescript of V., p. 143.
14. Marie Franco, “Queer Sex, Queer Text: S/M in Gravity’s Rainbow,” in
Chetwynd et al. (eds.), Thomas Pynchon.
15. Margaret Lynd, “Science, Narrative, and Agency in Gravity’s Rainbow,”
Critique, 46.1 (Fall 2004), 63–80, p. 71.
16. The idea of the homme fatale was suggested to us in a private conversation
with Kostas Kaltsas.
17. Pynchon, Untitled typescript of V., p. 197.
chapter 16
Humor
Doug Haynes
Notes
1. Sigmund Freud, Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious (1905), trans. James
Strachey (London: Penguin, 1991), p. 227.
2. W. S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan, “Gaily Tripping, Lightly Skipping”
(1898).
136 doug haynes
3. It does go on. See Patrick Hurley, Pynchon Character Names: A Dictionary
(Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2008).
4. Caesar cited in Georgiana M. M. Colvile, Beyond and Beneath the Mantle
(Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1988), p. 27; Tony Tanner, Thomas Pynchon (London:
Methuen, 1982), p. 60.
5. Sigmund Freud, “Humor” (1927) in The Standard Edition of the Complete
Psychological Works, Vol. XXI, trans. James Strachey and Anna Freud
(London: Vintage, 2001), p. 162.
6. Will May, “Dickinson, Plath, and the Ballooning Tradition,” in Tara Stubbs
and Doug Haynes (eds.), Navigating the Transnational in Modern American
Literature and Culture (New York: Routledge, 2017), 9–32, p. 11.
7. Harold Bloom places West’s Miss Lonelyhearts (1933) alongside the Byron the
Bulb section of Gravity’s Rainbow, Crane, and Faulkner, as an example of the
“American Sublime.” See Bloom (ed.), Thomas Pynchon (Philadelphia:
Chelsea House, 2003), p. 1.
8. See Doug Haynes, “Laughing at the Laugh: Unhappy Consciousness in
Nathanael West’s The Dream Life of Balso Snell,” Modern Language Review,
102.2 (2007), 341–62.
9. Percy Wyndham Lewis, Satire and Fiction (London: The Arthus Press, 1930),
p. 47.
10. Theodor W. Adorno and Max Horheimer, Dialectic of Enlightenment, trans.
John Cumming (London: Verso, 1995), p. 77.
11. Mucho Maas is Oedipa’s husband in The Crying of Lot 49.
12. Paul de Man, “The Rhetoric of Temporality” in Blindness and Insight:
Essays in the Rhetoric of Contemporary Criticism (Abingdon: Routledge,
1996), 187–228, p. 213. De Man reads Baudelaire’s “The Essence of
Laughter” to establish a doubling irony that displaces the real physical
subject.
13. Richard Hardack, “Revealing the Bidder: The Forgotten Lesbian in
Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49,” Textual Practice, 27.4 (2013), 565–95, p. 572.
14. Noël Carroll presents this view in his concise and useful Humour: A Very Short
Introduction (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014).
15. For discussion of surrealist juxtaposition, see André Breton, “Surrealist
Situation of the Object,” Manifestoes of Surrealism, trans. Richard Seaver
and Helen R. Lane (Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press: 1974), pp.
255–78, p. 275.
16. Arthur Schopenhauer, The World as Will and Idea, trans. R. B. Haldane and
J. Kemp (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1964), p. 76.
17. Hurley, Pynchon Character Names, p. 6.
18. Sarah Churchwell, “There Are More Quests Than Answers,” review of
Inherent Vice, Guardian, July 7, 2009, www.theguardian.com/books/2009/j
ul/26/pynchon-churchwell-inherent-vice.
19. Thomas Pynchon, “Is It O.K. to Be a Luddite?” New York Times, October 28,
1984, pp. 1, 40–41, pp. 40–41.
Humor 137
20. See Ralph Schroeder, “From Puritanism to Paranoia: Trajectories of History
in Weber and Pynchon,” Pynchon Notes, 26–27 (1990), 69–80 for
a comprehensive overview of the many connections and commentaries link-
ing Pynchon and Weber.
21. See the King’s College London project, A People’s History of Classics, which
records such dogs: www.classicsandclass.info/product/169/
22. Franz Fanon, Black Skins, White Masks, trans. Charles Lam Markmann
(London: Pluto, 2008), p. 9.
23. Slavoj Žižek, The Sublime Object of Ideology (London: Verso, 1989), p. 45.
chapter 17
Popular Culture
Eric Sandberg
Despite both the undoubted difficulty of his work and his famous refusal to
participate in celebrity literary culture, Thomas Pynchon is in some ways
a “popular” author. He has participated in popular culture, for example
writing liner notes for a 1996 rock album, contributing to an extended joke
about himself for a 1990s sitcom, The John Larroquette Show, and most
famously appearing twice – albeit with a paper bag over his head – on
The Simpsons. Similarly, despite the fact that his labyrinthine plotting,
challenging subject matter, vertiginous shifts in tone, and daunting range
of historical, cultural, and scientific reference limit his readership,
Pynchon’s novels have won mainstream literary awards, been Book-of-
the-Month Club selections and appeared on best-seller lists. Vineland
(1990), for example, spent thirteen weeks on the New York Times list,
debuting at number five between Umberto Eco’s Foucault’s Pendulum and
Stephen King’s The Dark Half, a coincidence that helps situate his work in
relation to high and low cultural forms.1 For despite their clear high-culture
associations, Pynchon’s novels integrate a wide range of text types in what
has been described as a “self-consciously ‘literary’ appropriation of popular
genres,” and insistently reference aspects of pop culture such as consumer
products, TV shows, movies, and songs.2 This engagement with the
popular both contributes to Pynchon’s poetics and plays a key role in his
critique of contemporary society.
Popular Genres
Genre fiction has long been seen as the literary manifestation of popular
culture, and thus as something “fundamentally, perhaps inherently
debased, infantile, commercialized, unworthy of the serious person’s
attention.”3 Yet not only is an “oscillation” between “High and Low
forms,” as Franco Moretti has argued, a key historical feature of the
novel, but under the influence of postmodernity it has come increasingly
138
Popular Culture 139
to rely on the integration or wholesale expropriation of genre elements.4
Pynchon’s work is exemplary in this respect. Gravity’s Rainbow (1973)
incorporates so many different genres that some wonder if the word
novel does justice to its “encyclopaedic polyphony,” and in Against
the Day (2006) we find what Brian McHale has described as genre poach-
ing or mediated historiography, a technique that allows Pynchon to
describe “an era’s history through the medium of its popular genres.”5
A normal reaction to reading a text like V. (1963) is to wonder what one is
reading: satire, spy novel, travelogue, sci-fi story, or something else entirely.
But with Pynchon’s two most recent novels, Inherent Vice (2009) and
Bleeding Edge (2013), we know exactly where we stand. He is no longer
including genre elements in overtly postmodern narratives, no longer
creating dense palimpsests of different fictional forms. Instead, he is work-
ing directly within one of the most popular contemporary genres, crime
fiction, in its hardboiled form.
This is not to say that Pynchon’s crime fiction is exactly what readers of
James Patterson or Stieg Larsson would recognize. Plots are dense, with
multiple, interwoven storylines; it is not always clear what is real, much less
true; and investigations do not produce tidy, socially reaffirming resolu-
tions. Nonetheless, in these novels Pynchon both revels in a form of
popular fiction he clearly loves, and exploits its connection to a tradition
of political crime fiction in which, as Andrew Pepper has recently argued,
the key question is not who committed a particular crime, but “what has
caused this problem called ‘crime’ in the first place.”6 Part of this involves
his choice of the hardboiled: The form is historically the main American
contribution to political crime writing, and in both Inherent Vice and
Bleeding Edge Pynchon emphasizes the contrast between the “old-time
hard-boiled dick era,” with which his work is aligned, and the submissive
conformity of post-1960s “cop-happy” America (IV 33, 97). Thus
Pynchon’s use of this popular genre helps develop his sustained critique
of both the “mechanisms and motivators of oppression” and “the tactics of
repressive forces.”7
Pynchon both uses and subverts generic tropes as part of this project.
Take, for example, the heroism of the hardboiled investigator. Raymond
Chandler described the private eye as “a man of honor,” and his proto-
typical detective Philip Marlowe as a “shop-soiled Galahad.”8 This applies
to Bleeding Edge’s Maxine Tarnow as well as Inherent Vice’s Doc Sportello,
who identifies himself with “a single and ancient martial tradition” of pop-
culture figures like Bugs Bunny and Popeye based on “resisting authority,
subduing hired guns, and defending your old lady’s honor” (IV 326). One
140 eric sandberg
of the hardboiled investigator’s roles, as Fredric Jameson has argued, is to
navigate an atomized society, uncovering links between its ostensibly
separate parts until “the rule of naked force and money” is revealed
“complete and undisguised,” and this is exactly what Sportello and Tarnow
do.9 The former uncovers a vertically integrated heroin cartel linking
corrupt cops, hired killers, real estate moguls, right-wing political action
groups and old-money Los Angeles, while the latter reveals a similar set of
malign connections in New York, indicated by Bleeding Edge’s master
metaphor of the Internet as a “set of invisible links” connecting “the city
in its seething foul incoherence” (BE 167). In other cases, however,
Pynchon subverts the genre to achieve similar critical traction. Thus he
rejects its misogynist hypermasculinity by locating Sportello as the object
of assertive female sexuality, and by reversing the genre’s traditional sexual
roles in Maxine Tarnow’s encounters with homme fatale Nicholas
Windust. Critics have identified a tension in Pynchon’s work between
“containment and freedom, in which the creation of precarious sites of
dissent is inevitably threatened by the systematic force of mainstream
culture,” and the popular genre of crime fiction offers Pynchon just such
a contested site.10
Popular Culture
Allusions to aspects of popular culture are as central to Pynchon’s work
as his use of popular genres. As David Foster Wallace has noted,
Pynchon was ahead of his time in the strategic deployment of pop-
culture references.11 The first page of V., for example, refers to “black
levis” and a “Sterno can,” both readily identifiable brand names, while
Gravity’s Rainbow offers “Lysol,” “Sheiks,” and “Burma Shave” in the
course of a single, brief episode (V 9; GR 64–65). Many of his novels
refer to real or fictional pop music, and even an explicitly historical
novel like Mason & Dixon (1997) contains an anachronistic reference to
Spock’s famous greeting, “Live long and prosper” (MD 485).
Television, the dominant popular medium of the twentieth century,
is present throughout his work. A scene in The Crying of Lot 49 (1966)
in which Oedipa Maas and the lawyer Metzger watch him perform as
a child-star in an old war movie while the line dividing reality from its
televisual representation blurs is typical: Oedipa feels a “sharpness
somewhere [. . .] between her breasts” as she watches soldiers “impaling
one another on bayonets” (CL 42). But pop culture plays a particularly
prominent role in Vineland, Inherent Vice, and Bleeding Edge.
Popular Culture 141
Critics have tended to read the first two of these novels alongside
The Crying of Lot 49 as a Californian trilogy of sorts, but with the publica-
tion of Bleeding Edge, set in turn-of-the millennium New York, it has
become clear that what binds these novels together is the reckless exuber-
ance with which they plunge headfirst into the shallow end of the pop-
culture pool.12 Erik Dussere has pointed out that in the 1980s America of
Vineland “signs of the consumer society are everywhere.”13 From Fruit
Loops to Count Chocula, Diet Pepsi to Nestle’s Quik, Return of the Jedi to
Friday the 13th and CHiPs to Gidget, this is a world of utter consumer
banality in which watching TV is a primary human activity: “the Tube was
a member of the household” (VL 348). Similarly, in Inherent Vice, char-
acters spend as much time watching TV as doing anything else. Bleeding
Edge, however, alludes to pop culture more insistently than any other
Pynchon novel. Its panoply of brand names, ranging from Razor scooters
to Pokémon to Zima, reflects turn-of-the-millennium consumer culture,
and all of its characters not only incessantly watch and discuss TV but also
think and talk in TV-inspired patterns. Maxine’s best friend – or “wacky
sidekick” in the TV parlance with which these characters are so comfor-
table – even teaches in the (fictional) popular culture department of the
City College of New York (BE 25).
There is nothing very unusual in all this. Pynchon clearly revels in the
superabundance of pop culture, and as Wallace argues these sort of
references not only create an ironic mood and gesture toward the ubiqui-
tous vapidity of consumer culture but are also “just plain realistic.”14 This
is, after all, the world we live in. What is shocking, however, is the extent to
which Pynchon’s prose here has itself become a pop-culture artefact.
Michael Chabon has noted that Bleeding Edge eschews the lyrical, wide-
ranging sentences that characterize many of Pynchon’s novels in favour of
a “constricted prose style.”15 This is the prose of mass culture, consisting of
brand names, slang, TV taglines, and the attenuated language of the
everyday. These are not just novels depicting popular culture; they are
novels written from within that culture, and written in its language.
Many critics deplore this change. Harold Bloom, for example, has
described Vineland as the greatest “disaster in modern American fiction,”
a “hopelessly hollow book” without a “redeeming sentence, hardly
a redeeming phrase.”16 Other critics treat Vineland as a “redheaded step-
child,” or unwanted embarrassment, their discomfort stemming from the
novel’s close ties to popular culture.17 Similarly, Michiko Kakutani’s
description of Inherent Vice and Bleeding Edge as “Pynchon Lite” simulta-
neously identifies one of the novels’ main features – their integration of
142 eric sandberg
popular culture and language – and condemns it as “sophomoric.”18 It is as
if Pynchon’s novels about popular culture are condemned as popular
culture.
I would argue, however, that this is to misunderstand – fundamentally –
what Pynchon is doing in these novels: The absence of redemptive literary
language and the textual immersion in the most superficial and ephemeral
aspects of contemporary culture is very much the point. These novels do
not offer a contrast between a high culture that may be inaccessible,
misunderstood, or threatened but nonetheless exists, and an inauthentic,
commercial popular culture. Compare McClintic Sphere in V. “swinging
his ass off” on his “hand carved ivory alto saxophone with a 4½ reed”
making music “like nothing any of them had heard before,” with Coy
Harlingen in Inherent Vice, who plays sax in the successful surf band
The Boards “as if the instrument was some giant kazoo” (V 59; IV 37).
One represents a radically authentic music, the other the failure of music to
transcend commercial mediocrity. In Bleeding Edge, when it is claimed that
“it is a truth universally acknowledged that Jews don’t proselytize” (BE 24),
it is less a literary allusion than an indication of the digestion by popular
culture of the opening lines of Pride and Prejudice.
If these novels are indeed Pynchon Lite, it is because they are linguistic
products originating from and operating within the same overarching
system that produces, markets, and consumes ‘Lite’ products. To conceal
this unpalatable truth, Pynchon implies, would be delusive if not down-
right dishonest. As March Kelleher claims in Bleeding Edge, “‘Culture, I’m
sorry, Hermann Göring was right, every time you hear the word check
your sidearm. Culture attracts the worse impulses of the moneyed, it has no
honor, it begs to be suburbanized and corrupted’” (BE 56). This process is
written into the landscape of the novel: The Lincoln Center, home of the
Metropolitan Opera, the New York City Ballet, and the New York City
Philharmonic Orchestra, is generally seen as a successful element of Robert
Moses’ large-scale mid-century urban renewal project, but for Kelleher the
point is that it destroyed a community of “7,000 boricua families [. . .] just
because Anglos who didn’t really give a shit about high culture were afraid
of these people’s children” (BE 55).
However, if high culture fails to challenge political, social, and cultural
hegemony, fails to offer a viable alternative to an America “Disneyfied and
sterile” (BE 51), as New York is described in Bleeding Edge, where can such
a challenge come from? Traditionally, Pynchon has explored two possibi-
lities: zones of exemption and active resistance. In Gravity’s Rainbow, for
example, the postwar Zone is an anarchic site of potential freedom, while
Popular Culture 143
the Counterforce struggles against systems of corporate and governmental
manipulation and control. In Vineland and Inherent Vice, 1960s counter-
culture is a focus of (doomed) resistance. But in Bleeding Edge these
possibilities have been squeezed into the margins: There is the Internet –
but it is already compromised by its association with the military-industrial
complex, and it is well on its way to becoming a virtual extension of
a corporatized physical world; there are two young hackers on the run,
and a dubious cyberattack carried out by the Russian mafia, but these seem
more like fantasies of resistance than genuine alternatives. Instead of these
tenuous alternatives, Pynchon seems to imply that opposition to
a hegemonic system must arise from within the system itself.
What I am describing here can be considered under the heading of
excorporation, defined by John Fiske as “the process by which the sub-
ordinate make their own culture out of the resources and commodities
provided by the dominant system.” The process is essential because the
hegemonic system provides no other resources from which to construct
cultural alternatives.19 Pynchon’s pop fictions rely on precisely such trans-
formations of the artefacts of consumer culture. But the adults in these
novels tend to be irretrievably compromised, and it falls to others to
repurpose pop culture from within. In Vineland, for instance, the teenaged
Prairie Wheeler is able to turn commercial junk food into communal
meals: “giant baloneys were set to roasting whole on spits, to be turned
and attentively basted with a grape-jelly glaze by once-quarrelsome kitchen
staff” (VL 111). Despite its very different cultural register, this is comparable
to Mrs. Ramsay’s unifying dinner party in Virginia Woolf’s To the
Lighthouse. In Inherent Vice, the “childlike” (not “childish”) Doc
Sportello’s love of John Garfield movies inspires his own lonely quest for
justice, an acknowledgment of the potential of mass culture to express and
motivate resistance (IV 213). This ability of the young to challenge popular
hegemony is clearest, however, in Bleeding Edge, in which Maxine’s son
Otis and his friend Fiona turn “Melanie’s Mall,” a plastic consumer
paradise for a “half-scale Barbie with a gold credit card” (BE 68), into an
anti-capitalist site of creative mayhem. Similarly, Otis and his brother
Ziggy use the compromised Internet to create “Zigotisopolis,” a utopian
version of a pre-9/11 New York, a “not-yet-corrupted screenspace” they
inhabit “unconcerned for their safety, salvation, destiny” (BE 429).
As Fiske writes, “popular culture is necessarily the art of making do with
what is available,” and the children in Bleeding Edge are masters of exactly
this process.20 They take the world as it is given, commercialized and
compromised, and transform it into something new. This is one of the
144 eric sandberg
central processes of Pynchon’s pop fictions, which, like Otis and Ziggy and
Fiona, take the world of popular culture and its attenuated language and
transform it into works of art that both lovingly describe and fiercely
critique contemporary culture.
Notes
1. “Best Sellers: January 21, 1990,” International New York Times, January 21, 1990.
www.nytimes.com/1990/01/21/books/best-sellers-january-21-1990.html.
2. Andrew Hoberek, “Introduction: After Postmodernism,” Twentieth Century
Literature, 53, 3 (2007), 233–47, p. 238
3. Michael Chabon, “Trickster in a Suit of Lights: Thoughts on the Modern
Short Story,” in Maps and Legends: Reading and Writing Along the Borderlands
(New York: Harper, 2009), pp. 1–14, p. 8.
4. Franco Moretti, Graphs, Maps, Trees: Abstract Models for Literary History
(London: Verso, 2007), p. 29.
5. Keith M. Booker, “Gravity’s Novel: A Note on the Genre of Gravity’s
Rainbow,” Pynchon Notes, 20–21 (1987), 61–68, p. 61; Brian McHale,
“Genre as History: Genre-Poaching in Against the Day,” Genre, 42 (2009),
5–20, p. 17.
6. Andrew Pepper, Unwilling Executioner: Crime Fiction and the State (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2016), p. 12.
7. Joanna Freer, Thomas Pynchon and American Counterculture (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2014), pp. 1–2.
8. Raymond Chandler, “The Simple Art of Murder,” in The Simple Art of
Murder (New York: Vintage, 1988), pp. 1–18, p. 18; Raymond Chandler,
The High Window (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1976), p. 174.
9. Fredric Jameson, “On Raymond Chandler,” in Glenn W. Most and William
W. Stowe (eds.), The Poetics of Murder: Detective Fiction and Literary Theory
(San Diego, CA: Harcourt, 1983), pp. 122–48, pp. 127, 130.
10. Simon Malpas and Andrew Taylor, Thomas Pynchon (Manchester:
Manchester University Press, 2013), p. 1.
11. David Foster Wallace, “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U. S. Fiction,”
Review of Contemporary Fiction, 13, 2 (1993), 151–94, pp. 166–67.
12. Thomas Hill Schaub, “The Crying of Lot 49 and other California Novels,” in
Inger H. Dalsgaard, Luc Herman, and Brian McHale (eds.), The Cambridge
Companion to Thomas Pynchon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2012), pp. 30–43.
13. Erik Dussere, “Flirters, Deserters, Wimps, and Pimps: Thomas Pynchon’s
Two Americas,” Contemporary Literature, 51, 3 (2010), 565–95, p. 586.
14. Wallace, “E Unibus Pluram,” p. 167.
15. Michael Chabon, “The Crying of September 11,” New York Review of Books,
60.17, November 7, 2013: pp. 68–70, p. 70.
Popular Culture 145
16. Antonio Weiss, “Harold Bloom, The Art of Criticism No. 1,” Paris Review,
118 (1991).
17. Dussere, “Flirters, Deserters, Wimps, and Pimps,” 586.
18. Michiko Kakutani, “A Calamity Tailor-Made for Internet Conspiracy
Theories: ‘Bleeding Edge,’ a 9/11 Novel by Thomas Pynchon,” International
New York Times, September 10, 2013. Kakutani also used the phrase in her
review of Inherent Vice. See Michiko Kakutani, “Another Doorway to the
Paranoid Pynchon Dimension,” New York Times, August 3, 2009.
19. John Fiske, Understanding Popular Culture, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge,
2010), p. 13.
20. Fiske, Understanding Popular Culture, p. 13.
chapter 18
146
Music and Sound 147
postmodern pastiche. While Pynchon’s songs may receive more attention
than do his broader sonics, however, both are expressions of the same
impulse: an exploration of the role of art in both the service of and the
resistance to hegemony. “Listening to music is listening to all noise,
realizing that its appropriation and control is a reflection of power, that
it is essentially political,” writes Attali. “With noise is born disorder and its
opposite: the world,” he continues: “With music is born power and its
opposite: subversion.”4 Or, as Pynchon puts it in Mason & Dixon: “When
the Forms of Musick change, ’tis a Promise of civil Disorder” (MD 262).
Novel Soundtracks
In 1959, as a 22-year-old Cornell graduate, Pynchon sought a Ford
Foundation fellowship, describing, in his proposal, his “desire to write
comic opera” and “to adapt contemporary American science fiction to the
operatic stage.”5 While the application was denied (and subsequently
sealed after briefly resurfacing decades later), Pynchon was a budding
librettist even before making his name as a novelist. When news of this
career-that-might-have-been emerged in the late 1980s, the revelation came
as little surprise to Pynchon’s readers, for his fiction is replete with operatic
allusions and invented musical theater. From “the musical drama
The Black Hole of Calcutta, or, The Peevish Wazir” in Mason & Dixon
(MD 562) to the “Ripperetta” in Against the Day (2006) (AD 680) to the
“never-distributed Marx Brothers version of Don Giovanni” in Bleeding
Edge (BE 418), the productions that Pynchon imagines, while often out-
landish, are clearly the jests of a musical connoisseur. Correspondingly, the
lyrics that appear in each of his novels and several of his short stories might
well be taken as the work of a moonlighting librettist, compulsively writing
to music that we can only occasionally hear. Alas, when Laurie Anderson
wrote “a lengthy, heartfelt letter” requesting permission to stage Gravity’s
Rainbow (1973) as an opera, Pynchon replied “that of course she could, as
long as it was scored entirely for solo banjo.”6 The project, needless to say,
is unlikely to see the light of day.
Despite Pynchon’s abiding interest in opera and musical theater, how-
ever, the medium most germane to an investigation of the musicality of his
fiction may well be film. This is not only a reflection of Pynchon’s own
interest in film and television, but also because the relationship between the
audio and the visual elements of motion pictures provides an apt frame-
work for considering Pynchon’s aurality. In short, a film or TV soundtrack
contains both foreground and background: audio elements positioned
148 justin st. clair
conspicuously, to capture – consciously – the attention of the audience,
and those positioned more obliquely, to frame the focal elements and to
suggest – often unconsciously – various interpretive strategies.
Representative example of foregrounding, for instance, might involve an
on-screen performance by the principal in a musical, or the sound of
a radio news broadcast around which characters, in the aftermath of
a catastrophe, huddle. In both situations, the soundtrack becomes the
focus, and the audience is expressly aware of the role sound plays in the
audiovisual presentation. Conversely, canned applause on a television
show, which directs the audience toward an entrance, exemplifies televisual
use of background sound. In this case, the focus is on whichever celebrity
appears on set rather than any element of the soundtrack. The audience, in
fact, is typically unaware that the applause begins impossibly early,
a reversal of cause and effect. The ovation is not a natural reaction to an
entrance (as might happen in an actual theater) but a subtle direction of the
audience’s attention, an invisible cue that something of importance is
about to happen.
In terms of Pynchon’s fiction, then, the libretto – if we might so deem
his multitudinous lyrics – is evidently foregrounded. Typically offset as
block quotations and sometimes even italicized, the songs disrupt the text
block, if not the narrative flow. Even though the alternation between
prose and verse visually foregrounds the song lyrics, however, the music
itself remains in the background, not audibly off-screen as would be the
case with film, but silently off-page. As novelist Rick Moody notes, “[a]
persistent rumor holds that all the songs in Pynchon have actual melo-
dies, and that the author may himself have enough of a songwriting gift to
craft his own melodies, instead of just writing words to extant tunes of the
period.”7 This may well be true, but short of Pynchon releasing a so-
called “fake book,” complete with chord changes and melodies, readers
wishing to sing along are left with two options: either follow textual clues
to an existing tune or write their own melodies. While several fan projects
have set Pynchon’s lyrics to music, a surprising number of the songs
reveal their own melodies. Some of the discoverable tunes are set only
slightly behind the foregrounded lyrics. For example, the “company
jingle” in Vineland (1990) – “A lawn savant, who’ll lop a tree-ee-uh, /
Nobody beats Mar- / Quis de Sod!” – clearly indicates the complemen-
tary music: a “postdisco arrangement of the Marseillaise” (VL 47).
Likewise in The Crying of Lot 49 (1966), Yoyodyne’s corporate hymn is
introduced with the phrase: “To the tune of Cornell’s alma mater” (CL
83). While “La Marseillaise” is more recognizable, perhaps, than “Far
Music and Sound 149
above Cayuga’s Waters,” both are easily accessible to any interested
reader. Staged a bit further in the background, however, are the songs
that only hint at their music. In Gravity’s Rainbow, for example, readers
are not expressly told how to sing “Now don’t you remember Red
Malcolm up there, / That kid with the Red Devil Lye in his hair” (GR
67). Nevertheless, the text allows that it is “some traditional American
tune” that “goes for eleven beats, skips a twelfth, [and] begins the cycle
over” (GR 67). It might take a bit of pondering (or a folk-singing friend)
to realize that the tune is likely “Sweet Betsy from Pike.”
Pynchon’s song lyrics and their attendant melodies, however, are not
the only way he has soundtracked his fiction. Just prior to the publica-
tion of Inherent Vice (2009), for example, a forty-two-item playlist
“designed exclusively for Amazon.com, courtesy of Thomas Pynchon”
appeared on the e-commerce website. “Have a listen to some of the
songs you’ll hear in Inherent Vice,” the posting proclaimed.8
The advertisement was only partially false, for while most of the forty-
two items do appear in some form in the novel, the melodies to these
songs – much like the music to Pynchon’s various lyrics – both reside
and resound off-page. As the Amazon.com playlist suggests, however,
this peculiar form of novelistic background sound contextualizes the
action, serving as a sort of referential matrix that captures the novel’s
spatiotemporal zeitgeist. For example, on Doc’s “way up to Topanga,
the radio cranked out a Super Surfin’ Marathon [. . .] ‘Pipeline’ and
‘Surfin’ Bird’ by the Trashmen, and ‘Bamboo’ by Johnny and the
Hurricanes, singles by Eddie and the Showmen, the Bel Airs, the
Hollywood Saxons, and the Olympics” (IV 124–5). This technique of
reporting a soundtrack – telling the readers secondhand, as it were,
what’s audible in the characters’ world – occurs throughout Pynchon’s
novels: We overhear “a radio turned to WAVY and Pat Boone” (V 19)
in V., a “jukebox play[ing] the Doors, Jimi Hendrix, Jefferson Airplane,
[and] Country Joe and the Fish” (VL 117) in Vineland, and “classical
music coming from the TV room” (BE 417) in Bleeding Edge. Elsewhere
the music issues from elevators and karaoke machines; it is on record,
cassette, and compact disc, in nightclubs and dancehalls, bedrooms,
bars, and shopping malls. Everywhere we are given “the background
music for what is to transpire” (GR 713).
In addition to using music as a contextual backdrop to the narrative
action, Pynchon also soundtracks his fiction dialogically. His characters
are immersed in a musical matrix and, as a result, they conversationally
retransmit a significant portion of the soundtrack. As is the case with
150 justin st. clair
Pynchon’s other music, these dialogic inclusions are positioned var-
iously along a spectrum – some are more to the fore, while others,
comparatively speaking, reverberate from afar. The argument between
Gustav and Säure in Gravity’s Rainbow over the relative merits of
Beethoven and Rossini, for example, is clearly an instance of the
former: The conversation places music and its consideration at the
center of the episode, even if La Gaza Ladra and the Ninth Symphony,
while directly mentioned, can echo only in the reader’s imagination
(GR 440–42). However, Pynchon also delights in slant asides, glancing
musical references that play more faintly in the background.
To accomplish this, he often embeds song lyrics inside conversations.
In Vineland, for instance, Prairie half-heartedly defends her relation-
ship with Isaiah Two Four: “Love is strange, Dad, maybe you forgot
that” (VL 16). “I know love is strange,” Zoyd replies, “known it since
1956, including all those guitar breaks” (VL 16). The exchange captures
the banality of American discourse and does so with a wink and a nod:
Not only does it emphasize the virality of platitudinous pop music
(perhaps the twentieth-century’s primary source for cross-generational
common texts), but it also offers the reader a side game of “Name That
Tune.” (The song, incidentally, is the unsurprisingly titled “Love
Is Strange,” Mickey & Sylvia’s middling hit from 1956, which peaked
at #11 on the Billboard Hot 100.)
In many cases, Pynchon announces the conversational appropriation
of pop lyrics with a “would say,” “used to say,” or “always sez”
formulation, as in “‘Me gotta go’ as the Kingsmen always used to
say” (VL 190) or “hey if that’s the way it must be, okay, as Roy
Orbison always sez” (IV 69). This recurring trope (which we also
find, it should be noted, in narrative passages as well) extends the
scope of the fictional soundtrack beyond Pynchon’s libretto and the
retransmission of music playing in the diegetic world. Perhaps most
importantly, these allusions carry cultural baggage. A reader can trian-
gulate the ventriloquized lyrics, when recognized, with other situational
and thematic aspects of the novels in which they appear. Consider the
two examples above, for instance. The Kingsmen’s “Louie Louie”
evokes the infamous FBI investigation of the song’s supposed obscen-
ity, an overreach of federal law enforcement that resonates with
Vineland’s anti-fascist plotlines. Roy Orbison’s “Oh, Pretty Woman,”
meanwhile, cannot escape its close association with the eponymous
film, a cringeworthy update on the age-old “hooker-with-a-heart-of-
gold” theme. When Doc Sportello drops the line on Deputy DA
Music and Sound 151
Penny Kimball, then, it is at once a backhanded put-down and an
ironic acknowledgment of the situational power dynamic.
Resist/Control
Power may be invisible, but it certainly is not silent. The soundtracks we
find in Pynchon’s novels include not only a wealth of music but also the
sound of wealth at work in the world. Pynchon, in other words, charts the
political economy of sound. Throughout his fiction, ambient background
music figures as the primary instantiation of corporate aurality, a soundbed
for capitalist exchange and exploitation. Over the course of the twentieth
century, the Muzak Corporation was the principal purveyor of such back-
ground music, soundtracking “forty-three of the world’s fifty biggest
industrial companies” in its heyday.9 Muzak’s mission was to manipulate
(unconsciously) all subjects within earshot, thereby increasing the produc-
tivity of workers and “turn[ing] browsers into buyers,” as one of the
company’s advertisements bragged.10
In Pynchon’s fiction, ambient background music is, on occasion,
explicitly rendered as Muzak: we visit “the Muzak-filled face hospital”
(V 102) in V. and a pizzeria with “Muzak [. . .] seeping in, in its sub-
liminal, unidentifiable way” (CL 141) in The Crying of Lot 49. At other
times, “what seeps out hidden speakers in the city elevators and in all the
markets” (GR 64) is all the more insidious for its anonymity. We get
“concealed speakers playing FM stereo locked to some easy-listening
frequency in the area, seething quietly, like insect song” (VL 98) in
Vineland; “[m]usick, from some invisible source” (MD 706) in Mason
& Dixon; and “sounds from all invisible parts of the city” (AD 376) in
Against the Day. As these quotations suggest, concealment and invisibility
amplify the power – and inherent danger – of background sound. That
which is unseen often goes unnoticed, and Pynchon places particular
emphasis on the commercial ramifications of inattention, for it is fre-
quently an invisible band, not an invisible hand, that greases the eco-
nomic engine. In Vineland, for example, California’s shopping-mall
culture is shot through with “New Age mindbarf [. . .] dribbling out of
the PA system” (VL 330). This is not simply an aesthetic complaint on
Pynchon’s part, but an observation regarding the anesthetic power of
ambient commercial soundtracks. During Prairie and her friends’ delin-
quent sortie at South Coast Plaza in Costa Mesa, “the background
shopping music continued, perky and up-tempo, originally rock and
roll but here reformatted into unthreatening wimped-out effluent,
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tranquilizing onlookers” (VL 328). Ironically in this case, music that is
intended to render consumers compliant pacifies them to the point of
inaction, thereby permitting the girls’ petty larceny to succeed.
Indeed, Pynchon’s engagement with “billows of audio treacle” (VL
109) (as background music is elsewhere described in Vineland) often
includes a simultaneous appeal to subversion. First and foremost,
Pynchon suggests that simply listening might itself be a subversive act.
In The Crying of Lot 49, for example, both Oedipa and Mucho in separate
episodes deliberately listen to Muzak playing in commercial spaces.
In the real world, the Muzak Corporation took its efforts in subliminal
persuasion so seriously that the company had a policy of permanently
removing any track that received consumer comment. Attentive subjects
are harder to manipulate. Pynchon also suggests that resistance to insti-
tutional power can take the form of musical feedback – from jazz to rock
and roll to raucous folk. What Oedipa hears when she attends to the
Muzak in the market is a “Vivaldi Kazoo Concerto” (CL 10). Someone
has hijacked the medium, replacing the “strings, reeds, and muted brass”
(CL 141) with an instrument typically dismissed as a child’s toy. In fact,
kazoos, harmonicas, and tambourines appear throughout Pynchon’s
fiction: There is specific reference to one or more of these instruments
in each of his novels. The on-campus uprising in Vineland, for example,
features “the strains of subversive music day and night, accompanied by
tambourines and harmonicas” (VL 204); and at the end of Gravity’s
Rainbow, “a veritable caravan of harmonica players” provokes the
Richard Nixon analog to mutter: “At least it’s not those tambourines”
(GR 756–57). Why these particular instruments? They are emblematic of
folk music: They are accessible, they are inexpensive, and they require no
formal training. Kazoos and harmonicas, in particular, are the people’s
pipes, mouth organs of democracy that give even the untutored a voice.
Resistance, Pynchon argues, need not be elegant, highbrow, or virtuosic.
It must, however, be audible if it is to be heard.
Notes
1. Jacques Attali, Noise: The Political Economy of Music (Minneapolis, MN:
University of Minnesota Press, 2002), p. 3.
2. Attali, Noise, p. 5.
3. Attali, Noise, p. 4.
4. Attali, Noise, p. 6.
5. Steven Weisenburger, “Thomas Pynchon at Twenty-Two: A Recovered
Autobiographical Sketch,” American Literature, 62.4 (1990), 692–97, p. 694.
Music and Sound 153
6. Mike Bell, “Laurie Anderson Offers Intimate Tour of Cantos,” Calgary
Herald, January 17, 2012, tinyurl.com/n28gvzd/.
7. Rick Moody, “Serge and the Paranoids: On Literature and Popular Song,”
Post45, July 1, 2011. post45.research.yale.edu/2011/07/serge-and-the-para
noids-on-literature-and-popular-song/.
8. “Amazon Exclusive: Thomas Pynchon’s Soundtrack to Inherent Vice,” www
.amazon.com/Inherent-Vice-Thomas-Pynchon/dp/1594202249.
9. Joseph Lanza, Elevator Music: A Surreal History of Muzak, Easy-Listening, and
Other Moodsong, rev. and exp. ed. (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan
Press, 2007), p. 149.
10. Advertisement reprinted in Luke Baumgarten, “Elevator Going Down:
The Story of Muzak,” daily.redbullmusicacademy.com/2012/09/history-of-
muzak/.
chapter 19
As a first step toward appreciating how Pynchon treats film and television,
it is helpful to shuffle the usual listing of his oeuvre according to publication
dates to reflect instead the chronological order of the periods the works
cover: Mason & Dixon (1761–86), Against the Day (1893–1920s), the episo-
dic historical narrative of V. (1898–1943), Gravity’s Rainbow (1944–45), V.’s
other narrative and Slow Learner (both 1950s), The Crying of Lot 49 (1964),
Inherent Vice (1970), Vineland (1984), and Bleeding Edge (2001–02).
In the first two novels in this sequence, the printed text is the dominant
medium, and that remains true in the highly literary historical (Stencil)
narrative of V. (1963) (a primitive version of cinema is briefly glimpsed in
Against the Day (2006), but it has yet to become a mass phenomenon).
In the three novels set in California, The Crying of Lot 49 (1966), Vineland
(1990), and Inherent Vice (2009), television has gained ascendancy – as
symbolized by “the greenish dead eye of the TV tube” (CL 9) in the
opening paragraph of the first of the trio – but it has been dethroned in
turn by the time of Bleeding Edge (2013), where hegemony has passed to the
Internet. As Benny Profane and his friends in V. are not moviegoers, only
Gravity’s Rainbow (1973) shows cinema as supreme; and as befits a reigning
medium it impinges on everything, from the intimate details of indivi-
duals’ everyday lives to momentous collective experiences and insanely
ambitious projects. Ilse Pökler, for instance, owes her very existence to her
father Franz regaining sexual potency after seeing Greta Erdmann in
Alpdrücken.
In Gravity’s Rainbow’s first two sections, set in southern England and
southern France, cinema is relatively restricted in its impact and rarely
sinister; whereas in the novel’s darker German second half it becomes
a much more toxic presence, invading the dreams and fantasies of an entire
population. Film references are particularly abundant in part three, where
much of Tyrone Slothrop’s northward journey across the Zone is in the
company of one representative of prewar German cinema or another: the
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Film and Television 155
star Greta – the celluloid object of Franz’s sadomasochistic lust, who
becomes the American soldier’s lover – and the director Gerhardt von
Göll, aka Der Springer. Also encountered in the Zone are groups with
strange filmic connections: the Argentinian émigrés shooting a version of
their national epic with von Göll at the helm; and the Schwarzkommando,
whose existence the Springer suspects he may somehow be responsible for,
as he made a fake film (largely cast with White Visitation scientists in
blackface) about an all-black German unit, only to discover that there
really was such a force.
As others have noted, in making connections between German movies
and German psyches the novel is indebted to Siegfried Kracauer’s study
From Caligari to Hitler, a cinematic chronicle that relates the “overt
history” of the Weimar years to a “secret history” of ever-shifting “psycho-
logical dispositions.”1 Put simply, Kracauer sees both films and political
developments as reflecting these subconscious “layers of collective mental-
ity,” with the result that recurring tropes in films between 1918 and 1933
prefigured Nazism – most obviously, the eponymous evil mastermind in
The Cabinet of Dr Caligari (1920).
Yet Pynchon’s approach departs from Kracauer’s in significant respects.
The representation of the era’s output is much narrower, dominated by
Fritz Lang’s oeuvre rather than attempting a cut-down version of
Kracauer’s panoramic account. The novel’s depiction of Germanic culture,
on the other hand, is far broader: Instead of concentrating solely on
cinema, it situates films within a matrix of other works – including
Rilke’s poetry, Grimms’ tales, Norse legends, visual art, Wagner operas,
and orchestral music from Beethoven to Webern – that also seem to mirror
(and sometimes shape) a hidden “psychological history.” Whereas
Kracauer’s favored mode is Freud-like assertion, by which he confidently
analyzes every film as an expression of the unfolding power struggle
between opposing mental dispositions, Pynchon prefers tentatively to
suggest – moreover, his relevant passages are dispersed, further distancing
them from anything resembling an argument.
Alongside sketches of the careers of the fictional Gerhardt and Greta
(plus extended scenes devoted to Franz as an exemplary movie addict) are
highlights from the CVs of a genuine director, Lang, and star, Rudolf
Klein-Rogge, who played the deranged scientist Rotwang in Lang’s
Metropolis (1927), Attila in The Nibelungs (1924), and the titular crime
lord in Dr Mabuse the Gambler (1922). Through this elaborate intermesh-
ing of real and imaginary, the novel shows interwar cinema instilling ideas
about themes such as death, military conquest, authoritarian leadership,
156 john dugdale
the charisma of evil, Gemeinschaft versus Gesellschaft, racial purity, non-
Aryan races, masculinity and aggression, femininity and passivity. Several
such motifs converge, for example, in a dazzling, multilayered passage
evoking the appeal for Franz of Klein-Rogge, which ends by linking his
Lang anti-heroes as having “yearnings all aimed [. . .] toward a form of
death that could be demonstrated to hold joy and defiance,” and contrast-
ing that with the “bourgeois [. . .] death, of self-deluding, mature accep-
tance” (GR 579) embodied by a blander actor in Lang’s Destiny (Der Müde
Tod) (1921).
How 1930s and 1940s US films are to be analyzed, by contrast, is hard to
discern – this despite a denouement that depicts Americans as having
“always been at the movies” (GR 760) and intercuts between scenes set
in a cinema run by a lightly disguised Richard Nixon and the countdown
of an SS rocket launch that draws, inter alia, on Lang’s oeuvre. Only one
gloss on a specific film is vouchsafed: The brief passage on King Kong – “the
legend of the black scapeape we cast down like Lucifer from the tallest
erection in the world” (GR 275) – is the sole instance of an implied
Kracauer-like link between an iconic moment and American mass men-
tality in this European novel with few American scenes or characters
(although the latter include the protagonist). Plenty of inferences are
possible about an underlying conception of Tinseltown’s propaganda
role in the period, but – in contrast to the apercus about Weimar movies
kindly made available – very little in the text confirms them.
Thus Gravity’s Rainbow, Pynchon’s only novel set in and reflecting the
era of cinema’s ascendancy, denies us a critique of Hollywood, although it
gleefully spoofs its most popular genres and its musical numbers.
The piecemeal theorizing about German film is offered as a model for
interpreting the stars and films to which it alludes, with allowances for
differences, but the rest is left to the reader. There may be a parable of this
stance in the improvised movie scenario Doper’s Greed that Osbie Feel
leaves as a “screen test” for Katje Borgesius, in which the actors mentioned,
tropes used, and dialogue spoken add up to “a message in code” (GR 535),
unveiling for her an emblematic conspiracy: the White Visitation plot
against Slothrop of which she was unwittingly part. “None of the codes is
that hard to break” (GR 756), the Nixon avatar, Richard M Zhlubb, will
later insist.
Though it is set in 1984, the year when George Orwell prophesied
“telescreens” (combining broadcasting and surveillance) that would instill
Big Brother’s instructions, by the time of Vineland, Pynchon’s next novel,
cinema’s reign is over. Its subordination is evident in the way movies are
Film and Television 157
more often seen by the characters on the new, more insidious ruling
medium, television, robbing them of the hypnotic power that derives
inter alia from big screens, darkened “movie theatres,” collective viewing,
and the impossibility of switching to something else. As well as pointedly
giving the Tube a new capital T, Pynchon begins in Vineland the practice
of providing the dates of major and minor movies alike in brackets; wryly
elevating them as worthy of scholarly attention, but also condescending to
them as belonging to the past. They have become to the TV generation, the
device seems to suggest, what the high-culture masterpieces often awarded
the same marker of significance were to the film generation.
After beginning with a bogus event staged purely for TV news crews’
benefit (Zoyd Wheeler’s annual stunt of jumping out of a window in
a bizarre costume), the novel opens its second chapter with his daughter
Prairie watching an afternoon TV movie, Pia Zadora in The Clara Bow
Story. Chapter Three is then devoted to Hector Zuñiga, a DEA agent who
is now a deranged Tube addict, on the run after escaping from the specialist
treatment clinic. Coinages such as “Tubal abuse,” “Tubefreeks,” and
“Tubaldetox” appear amid a flurry of references to television in this early
phase. Allusions to individual programs such as Hawaii 5–0 or
The Flintstones are usually in passing, but imply that their set-ups and
narrative formulas are freighted with ideology (about the police, say, or the
family). Pynchon’s emphasis, however, is on the medium through which
this mélange of stories and images arrives: its addictive and corruptive
power, its ubiquitousness, the wildly miscellaneous character of the mate-
rial it feeds into homes.
Unlike drama-dominated film, television is split between fictional and
factual work, and when Pynchon invents Tube shows or moments they
tend to be factual – or at least they purport to be: What they exemplify is
a seeming real, a pseudo-truth. Vineland’s opening presents TV news as
phony (when Wheeler tries to deviate from tradition, he is compelled to
perform the stunt as in the past), repeating not reporting, shaping what it
pretends to merely observe, drawn to what is telegenic but inane. Fake, too,
are drama-documentary biopics such as the imaginary Clara Bow Story,
denied authenticity from the outset by the casting of the lead role.
Set against both studio cinema (as film) and network and local TV news
(as reportage) is the work of the radical factual film unit, 24fps, which
Prairie’s mother Frenesi belonged to in the hippie era.2 Its raison d’être is to
be their opposite: unregimented, less “compliant” and telling stories of
repression or exploitation that they shun or underplay. Yet the novel’s
detailed portrayal of 24fps in flashback scenes suggests it may be more
158 john dugdale
similar to the mainstream media than the self-styled video guerrillas realize:
They, too, use audiovisual narratives as a political tool; they, too, are
unreliable narrators with narrow perspectives – Frenesi is almost literally
blinkered behind her viewfinder (VL 116) – who equate truth with the
public and visible. By the time Frenesi has exclusive access to dark deeds
kept hidden, she has become an agent for the federal prosecutor Brock
Vond as he seeks to destroy the short-lived countercultural utopia known
as PR3. She is an eyewitness to the murder of its figurehead Weed Atman,
but has helped to bring it about; a “bringer of light” to the crime scene, but
only in the grisly sense that the glare of her “hard frightening” spotlight
illuminates the body (VL 261).
In the Californian novels set earlier, television’s pre-eminence is less
pronounced; minus its Vineland capital T in both, the tube is merely
primus inter pares in a bewildering glut of media that also includes film,
photography, advertising, radio, newspapers, and computers.3 What is
distinctive about Pynchon’s treatment of television in The Crying of Lot
49 and Inherent Vice is a fascination with the extra scope it allows for real
and virtual lives to be side by side, and the hyperreal repercussions of their
coexistence and interaction.
In the former, Oedipa Maas’ lawyer and lover Metzger has been a child-
star in the movies, but it is through television that those films can be
“repeated endlessly” (CL 33) and piped into living spaces (although the
medium is perceived as defined by ephemerality, Pynchon tends to stress
its accidental archival role); when she snaps on her hotel room’s set in their
first meeting, Metzger’s period war film Cashiered uncannily appears, and
then provides the incongruous backdrop and soundtrack as they have sex.
He reverts to being an actor when in court, Metzger points out, and a TV
pilot has been made in which a friend, “a one-time lawyer who quit [. . .] to
become an actor [. . .] plays me, an actor become a lawyer reverting
periodically to being an actor” (CL 33). In Inherent Vice, private eye Doc
Sportello’s LAPD sparring partner Bigfoot Bjornsen – who “like many
L. A. cops” (and indeed Vineland’s Hector Zuñiga, who ends up as a movie
producer) “harbored show-business yearnings” (IV 9) – also doubles up as
an actor: In the space of two days, Sportello sees one of Bjornsen’s
ridiculous costumed commercials for Channel View Estates, watches him
giving a serious TV interview there while investigating a homicide, and is
arrested in the off-screen world by the “Renaissance detective” (IV 29).
What Metzger calls this “capacity for convolution” (CL 33) is presented
as extended by television – with its relative informality of access and
production opening up opportunities for moonlighting – and a speciality
Film and Television 159
of southern California. As Ronald Reagan is referenced in both novels,
it seems highly likely that Pynchon’s reuse of the trope in Inherent Vice
and Vineland is related to the rise of this movie actor and TV host-turned-
politician who reverted to being an actor in his public appearances, who was
Governor of California when the former is set (during the presidency of
Nixon, a Californian lawyer) and who was in the White House when the
latter is set. Scattered references position Reagan and Nixon as paradox-
ical figures: at once postmodern simulations and neo-fascistic, slickly
aligned with the media-driven society of the spectacle and reactionary
throwbacks.
When Sportello checks into a motel advertising itself as a kind of spa for
television devotees, the early-1970s “Tubefreex” who “bathe in these cath-
ode rays” (IV 253) anticipate the mid-1980s Tube addicts of Vineland, while
the proliferation of cable channels they relish looks forward to the myriad
options available to the early-noughties New Yorkers of Bleeding Edge.
In the latter novel, however, this cornucopia occasions not a coming
together but an ever more fragmented audience. The extended family at
its centre, though still more or less intact (a rarity in Pynchon’s fiction),
split up as viewers: The protagonist Maxine Tarnow watches female-
angled Lifetime, her husband Horst BioPiX and sports, her father Ernie
movie channels, her sons cartoons. None of them appears to watch net-
work shows.
By the time of Bleeding Edge, though, television has joined cinema as
a waning heritage medium. Name-checks for real and invented films, TV
series, and stars are frequent, but these are now harmless mind snacks and
chat topics, not the sinister, brain-warping tools of the oppressive elite
they were formerly insinuated as being. Television’s counterintuitive
archival function – storing and replaying both cinema and itself – is
again underlined in this novel, where characters are much more likely to
watch or discuss old movies or TV reruns than new programs. Rather
than being Orwellian telescreens (computers, instead, are on the way to
realizing that prediction), TV sets now resemble miniature museums,
which like their bricks-and-mortar counterparts are invitations to time
travel.
In a conversation between Maxine and Ernie, television in its hegemonic
heyday is compared with the Internet, the medium that supplanted it and
the novel’s chief subject. Like the Tube back then, the Internet is every-
where (it “creeps now like a smell through the smallest details of our lives”)
(BE 420), and it, too, seduces citizens into kowtowing to “control”:
formerly “all those cop shows” were ostensibly entertainment but really
160 john dugdale
“post-sixties propaganda, Orwell’s boot on the face” (BE 418); now
a technology Maxine naively hails as “empowering all these billions of
people, the promise, the freedom” (BE 420) actually entails, for old-school
lefty Ernie, empowering the police, FBI, and CIA: “Everybody connected
together, impossible anyone should get lost, ever again . . . Connect it to
[. . .] cellphones, you’ve got a total Web of surveillance, inescapable . . .
Terrific” (BE 420).
Ernie says nothing about television in 2001, irrelevant by inference
because of audience fragmentation and the availability of more efficient
methods of control. However, what has become a tranquillized and tran-
quillizing medium is shown in Bleeding Edge as possessing an unsuspected
subversive capacity – like film in Vineland, except that Frenesi Gates fails to
seize her opportunity to detonate a bombshell – if it takes the form of its
scruffier and sniffily regarded sibling, video. After the documentary-maker
Reg Despard films a room where Arab men are kept hidden in the Deseret
building, and then two groups with guns on top of it (BE 90–91), he and
Maxine realize post-9/11 that he may have stumbled on a “rehearsal”
(BE 268) connected to the terrorist attacks, and a clue to a different
narrative from the official version.
Furthermore, olde-worlde moving pictures have gained a further
flexibility of distribution in the Internet age, potentially expanding the
scope of their impact when they are revelatory: Confined to cinemas in
film’s reign, they were channeled into every US home in the age of
television, and now Despard’s footage on tape (which also becomes
a DVD) is made available on the World Wide Web once uploaded to
a “Weblog” (blog).
The fact that video in Bleeding Edge may be dismissed through its
associations with home movies, pirated films, porn, and publicity is what
allows it to pass below the radar (Despard is able to be a whistle-blower
inside Gabriel Ice’s digital empire because he is making a promo). Film
technology’s power to cause trouble, however, seems to be solely
unlocked in the hands of individual, independent filmmakers – belong-
ing to organizations, obeying corporate rules impregnated with dogma,
even being “professional” are all liable to defuse it. But there is something
of a catch-22 here: While apparently those who are solo and out-of-their-
depth alone see freely and freshly – Pynchon implicitly leans toward
accidental (and sometimes comical) video investigators such as Despard,
just as his novels favour amateur or outwardly amateurish detectives –
their innocence and exposed isolation all but ensure that they will be co-
opted or crushed.
Film and Television 161
Notes
1. David Cowart, Thomas Pynchon and the Dark Passages of History (Athens, GA:
University of Georgia Press, 2011), pp. 65–73; Siegfried Kracauer, From Caligari
to Hitler: A Psychological History of the German Film (Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1947), pp. 9–19.
2. 24fps – and visual media more generally – are discussed in detail in Shawn
Smith, Pynchon and History (London: Routledge, 2005), pp. 112–23.
3. See David Seed, The Fictional Labyrinths of Thomas Pynchon (Basingstoke and
London: Macmillan, 1988), pp. 140–46, which points out the relevance of
Marshall McLuhan’s Understanding Media (1964).
chapter 20
A famous image from The Crying of Lot 49 (1966) – in which Oedipa Maas
compares the concealed communication of a suburban “sprawl of houses”
to that of a “printed circuit” board (CL 24) – sets the tone for Thomas
Pynchon’s writing on real estate as much as on computing. Both these
fields have grown during Pynchon’s writing career; both have come to
represent systems of control throughout his writing. In his latest novel,
Bleeding Edge (2013), real estate and urban planning along with the inte-
gration of computing into personal and relational spaces reappear, two
twenty-first-century digital natives (sons of the female protagonist Maxine
Tarnow) merging the fields at a deeper level than Oedipa’s superficial
pattern recognition had done. In Pynchon’s latest analysis of human
agency, both urban planning and IT infrastructure remain central; they
become either loci of control, contested spaces, or places of resistance,
depending on who builds, buys, uses, or reclaims the city – be it real or
virtual.
At first glance, it might seem arbitrary to yoke together real estate and
the Internet in one chapter. However, there are parallels and congruencies
between the two. Thus both real estate and the Internet have taken on
industrial form, while land- and domain-ownership are comparable. Land
may serve as a source of wealth (through crop production, extractive
industries, sales, and rentals, say); so, too, the Internet (via service provi-
sion, hosting, and online marketing). Both real estate and digital domains
are strategic assets in relation to control of rivers, highways, and data
channels. In Pynchon’s writing, both also relate to other core ideas about
systems that mark his work: capitalism and class on the one hand, networks
162
Real Estate and the Internet 163
and communication on the other. Particularly in his latest novel,
Pynchon’s way of weaving them together – literally contextualizing them
with each other – throws a light on how his writing has evolved over time
to reflect on the central question of control.
Pynchon’s work portrays different types of pernicious ownership con-
struction. These range from landed colonial gentry via early twentieth-
century corporate monopolists to rentier capitalists who hold land at
a distance and occupants at arm’s length. They include the corrupting
influence of suburbanization and culturally insensitive urban planning,
and the more immaterial twenty-first-century trading of IT property. All
control and use as resources those who work within them; all seek to
dispossess or dispose of as waste those whose value cannot be capitalized.
The present chapter explores how in these fictions property systems, from
material real estate to digital networks, divide societies, creating white
middle-class cultures whose participation in these systems generates rev-
enue while dispossessing other ethnic and working-class cultures, enabling
more or less identifiable owners to pit classes and races against each other in
order to keep “wages down, and rents high” (BE 57).1 It relates Pynchon’s
ambivalence about the value of such human and technological networks to
the degree to which individuals or communities can act to resist determi-
nistic systems and to the ability of sanctuaries to survive when property
logics drive societies toward abusive and wasteful consumption.
Notes
1. See Tiina Käkelä, “‘This Land Is My Land, This Land Also Is My Land’: Real
Estate Narratives in Pynchon’s Fiction,” Textual Practice (2019) doi: 10.1080/
0950236X.2019.1580504.
2. See Robert A. Caro, The Power Broker: Robert Moses and the Fall of New York
(New York: Vintage, 1975); Mike Davis, City of Quartz: Excavating the Future
in Los Angeles (London: Verso, 1990).
3. See John Johnston, Information Multiplicity: American Fiction in the Age of
Media Saturation (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998),
pp. 206–32, p. 224.
4. John Brockman, Digerati: Encounters with the Cyber Elite (San Francisco, CA:
Hardwired, 1996), p. 24.
5. Claude E. Shannon and Warren Weaver, The Mathematical Theory of
Communication (Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1949), pp. 18–19;
Louis Menand, “Entropology,” New York Review of Books, 44.10, June 12,
1997, pp. 22–25, p. 24.
6. Complexities between men, women, love, and IBM were also in the forefront
in the libretto Pynchon and Kirkpatrick Sale worked on for Minstrel Island
(1958).
7. See Dale Carter, The Final Frontier: The Rise and Fall of the American Rocket
State (London, Verso, 1988).
8. See Thomas P. Hughes, Rescuing Prometheus: Four Monumental Projects that
Changed the World (New York: Vintage Books, 1998).
9. Thomas Pynchon “Foreword,” in George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four
(New York: Plume, 2003), p. xvi.
10. Stewart Brand “Introduction,” Whole Earth Software Catalog (Spring 1984)
www.wholeearth.com/issue/1230/article/283/introduction.to.whole.earth.soft
ware.catalog.
11. Thomas Pynchon, “Is It O.K. to Be a Luddite?” New York Times Book Review,
October, 28, 1984, pp. 1, 40–41, p. 41.
12. Pynchon, “Luddite,” p. 41.
13. See Fred Turner, From Counterculture to Cyberculture: Stewart Brand, the
Whole Earth Network, and the Rise of Digital Utopianism (Chicago, IL:
The University of Chicago Press, 2006); R. Buckminster Fuller, Utopia
or Oblivion: The Prospects for Humanity (New York: Bantam Books,
1969); Lewis Mumford, “Authoritarian and Democratic Technics” in
Technology and Culture, 5, 1 (Winter 1964), 1–8; Marshall McLuhan,
Real Estate and the Internet 171
Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (1964; London: Abacus,
1973).
14. See Samuel Thomas, Pynchon and the Political (New York: Routledge, 2007),
pp. 138–47.
15. Scott McClintock argues for a “longing for connection” which, for all the
paranoia, can give affirmative value to (for example) technology-based net-
works whereas capitalizing on land, say, has no such merit. See
Scott McClintock, “The Origins of the Family, Private Property, and the
State of California in Pynchon’s Fiction,” in Scott McClintock and
John Miller (eds.), Pynchon’s California (Iowa City, IA: University of Iowa
Press, 2014), pp. 91–111, p. 101.
16. David Stipp, “Stewart Brand: The Electric Kool-Aid Management
Consultant,” Fortune 132.8 (October 16, 1995), 160–72, p. 162.
17. Justin St. Clair, “The Reality of Fiction in a Virtually Postmodern
Metropolis,” in Keith Wilhite (ed.), The City Since 9/11: Literature, Film,
Television (Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2016), pp.
89–106, p. 100.
18. Pynchon, “Foreword,” p. xxv.
19. Pynchon, “Foreword,” pp. xxv, xxvi. See also the observations on Pynchon’s
stance in Kathryn Hume, “The Religious and Political Vision of Pynchon’s
Against the Day,” Philological Quarterly, 86.1–2 (Winter 2007), 163–87, pp.
173, 176–77.
chapter 21
Hutcheon thus provides one kind of basis for viewing as political writing
that seeks to highlight its awareness of its status as representation and of the
political importance of seeing all art and history in this light. Pynchon’s
novels can certainly be read in this way. Yet in Pynchon’s fiction there are
also other ways of reading the political that do not dwell primarily on the
politics of representation.
First, Pynchon’s politics manifest through the kinds of subject matter
his novels broach. Although there are elements of his writing that are
purely playful – an impulse epitomized, perhaps, by the comic-surreal
songs he surprises the reader with at intervals (sometimes complete with
instructions about the tune to which they should be sung) – Pynchon’s
fiction consistently addresses itself to the greatest travesties of justice that
Politics and Counterculture 175
have been committed over the past few hundred years. These include the
atrocities of World War II (in V. and Gravity’s Rainbow); the brutalities of
colonization and slavery (in V., Gravity’s Rainbow and Mason & Dixon
[1997]); the suppression, violent or otherwise, of worker/anarchist/coun-
tercultural uprisings (a recurrent focus dealt with most expansively in
Against the Day [2006]); and the more general depredations of capitalist
economy, whether in its liberal or neoliberal forms (a concern in all of
Pynchon’s novels).
It is a tendency of Pynchon’s writing of such injustices to treat them
mostly indirectly, often via an absurdist symbolic narrative depicting the
indifferent depravity of those who inhabit a middling rank in the hierarchy
of power that is ultimately to blame. To provide a few examples, in V., the
1904–8 genocide of the Herero people in German South-West Africa is
present in the text mainly as historical background to Foppl’s 1922 “siege
party,” a weeks-long hedonistic binge held in a fortified villa by whites
nostalgic for the time of German rule while another conflict, the
Bondelswarts rebellion (which also resulted in the deaths of numerous
native inhabitants of the region), rages on around them. In Gravity’s
Rainbow, Nazism’s violence is focalized primarily through the figure of
a single member of the German army, Major Weissman (alias Captain
Blicero), who engages in sadistic sexual abuse of a Dutch girl and a German
boy, neither of whom are Jewish (both seem, rather, to embody the Aryan
ideal). In Vineland (1990), the suppression of resistance to the intense
conservatism of the Reagan years is figured by the monomaniacal federal
prosecutor Brock Vond, who after having “won his war against the lefties,”
has moved on to “the war against drugs” (VL 130). Finally, in Mason &
Dixon, slavery in the United States is dealt with largely tangentially as the
main narrative recounts the drawing of the Mason-Dixon Line, which
came to divide the slave and free states, and emphasizes, this time rather
sentimentally, the relationship that develops between the astronomer,
Charles Mason, and surveyor, Jeremiah Dixon, who are tasked with
plotting the line.
Even when an historical event is dealt with directly, the tone in many
cases remains detached, as in the following oft-quoted passage from V. on
the aforementioned Herero genocide:
In August 1904, von Trotha issued his “Vernichtungs Befehl,” whereby the
German forces were ordered to exterminate systematically every Herero
man, woman and child they could find. He was about 80 per cent successful.
Out of the estimated 80,000 Hereros living in the territory in 1904, an
official German census taken seven years later set the Herero population at
176 joanna freer
only 15,130, this being a decrease of 64,870. Similarly the Hottentots were
reduced in the same period by about 10,000, the Berg-Damaras by 17,000.
Allowing for natural causes during those unnatural years, von Trotha, who
stayed for only one of them, is reckoned to have done away with about
60,000 people. This is only 1 per cent of six million, but still pretty good.
(V 245)
Such irony, as Hutcheon makes clear, can have its own political purposes.
In the examples given in the previous paragraph, for instance, the effect
could plausibly be read as encouraging thought about where blame for
injustice should lie, interrogating the relationship between sex and power,
highlighting the absurdity of indifference toward human suffering, and
investigating broad structures of complicity. In the above-quoted passage,
the biting irony of the final line – which compares the number killed by
von Trotha to the number of Jews killed in the Holocaust – can be
interpreted, for instance, as an attack on how the characteristic neutrality
of history-writing unethically renders mass death assimilable by converting
pain into statistics, or, as Shawn Smith has it, “as a reminder of the
inadequacy of words to convey such horrors.”12
Yet there are also flashes of what seems like straightforward political
sincerity in Pynchon’s work. These moments are most frequent, perhaps,
in his 2006 novel Against the Day, which I would suggest is Pynchon’s most
politically sincere work to date. Take, for instance, the thoughts of detec-
tive Lew Basnight on an assembly of anarchist protestors in which he
describes and contests attitudes toward the Left within his agency prevalent
in the 1890s moment of the novel:
There was a kind of general assumption around the shop that laboring men
and women were all more or less evil, surely misguided, and not quite
American, maybe not quite human. But here was this hall full of Americans,
no question, even the foreign-born, if you thought about where they had
come from and what they must’ve been hoping to find over here and so
forth, American in their prayers anyway, and maybe a few hadn’t shaved for
a while, but it was hard to see how any fit the bearded, wild-eyed, bomb-
rolling Red description too close. (AD 50)
Such thoughts have an obvious contemporary valence, especially for
a novel published just a few years after 9/11. Deciding whether or not this
novel (or any other Pynchon novel) offers a consensus on questions like the
“American-ness” of immigrants or the demonization of the Left requires an
assessment not just of isolated passages such as this, however, but of the
novel in its entirety, especially given that Pynchon tends to ventriloquize
multiple perspectives on a given event. The Haymarket bombing of 1886,
Politics and Counterculture 177
in which four civilians and seven policemen were killed at a similar protest
meeting to that described by Lew, for instance, is considered by one
character in Against the Day as having been perpetrated by a “gang of
anarchistic murderers” (AD 25), by another as “the only way working
people will ever get a fair shake under that miserable economic system”
(AD 111), and by the narrator (describing, again, the thoughts of Lew) as an
example of “a bombing, a massacre perhaps at the behest of the
U.S. government” (AD 1058). Yet I would argue that overall assessments
can be made of the political attitudes that a given Pynchon novel endorses.
Such judgments can be supported, it should be noted, by statements made
in Pynchon’s limited, but significant, body of journalism.13
One of the major focal points around which political interpretations of
Pynchon have oriented themselves is the engagement with the era of the
1960s counterculture that runs through his writing. A certain hippie
sensibility has long been ascribed to Pynchon’s fiction, as part of his overtly
and implicitly expressed sympathy for the Left, and in some of his novels
this interest in the counterculture is particularly clear: In Vineland, the
protagonist Zoyd Wheeler is a dope-smoking ex-hippie who, from the
perspective of the uber-conservative mid-1980s, is highly nostalgic for that
earlier moment when a left-wing revolution seemed possible; in Inherent
Vice (2009), the protagonist “Doc” Sportello is a dope-smoking hippie
private detective who, in 1970, is already nostalgic for the moment when
the counterculture was at its height, before it was compromised by govern-
ment infiltration or had sold out to consumer capitalism. The fact that
these moments are recognized within the texts as potentially nothing more
than figments of the protagonists’ respective imaginations does not under-
mine their significance, given that the tone of the prose is strongly sympa-
thetic to such nostalgia. For example, in Inherent Vice, the narrator’s
depiction of Doc’s “low-level bummer” about “how the Psychedelic
Sixties, this little parenthesis of light, might close after all, and all be lost,
taken back into darkness . . . ” (IV 254) suggests sympathy in its ambiguity
as to whether it is Doc or the narrator who considers the 1960s
a “parenthesis of light,” as well as via the ellipsis that underlines the
poignancy of the thought that the 1960s and its promise might fade
entirely.
Beyond such overt references to the 1960s counterculture, commentaries
on various countercultural ideas and movements are embedded, as I have
argued elsewhere, throughout Pynchon’s fiction.14 Interpreting such
embedded commentaries – passages or themes that indirectly respond to
a context distinct from that of the superficial subject matter – is another
178 joanna freer
way of reading the politics of Pynchon’s work. For instance, the
Schwarzkommando of Gravity’s Rainbow’s “Zone” can be read as
a commentary on the Black Power movement, and the same novel’s
“Counterforce” as an allusion to the Yippies; Dr. Hilarius in The Crying
of Lot 49 (1966) can be read as a response to Dr. Timothy Leary and his
psychedelic movement, and the Yz-les-Bains anarchists in Against the Day
as a commentary on “free love” hippies.
Finally, I would suggest that Pynchon’s politics can be read in the form
of his writing. The way he eschews coherently linear or singular narrative is,
I argue, not just to be interpreted as the result of a deconstructive impulse to
be put down to a generalized scepticism over the trustworthiness of
narrative or literary production per se. Rather, it could equally be the
expression of a constructive impulse to create an alternative literary form,
a form that in one sense can be seen to reflect an anarchist politics.
Anarchism, a much-misunderstood political philosophy, would in many
of its variants posit that an ideally functioning society should work via the
spontaneous and temporary association of people contributing to
a particular task before disbanding, thus avoiding the entrenchment of
hierarchies and the accumulation of power by individuals therein.
Pynchon’s novels, which typically present the reader with large numbers
of characters whose narrative strands will intersect in different ways for
different readers on different readings, can thus be seen as mimicking this
flexible and anti-hierarchical anarchistic model in the manner in which
they allow for the production of meaning.
The recent, more widespread recognition of the various approaches to
reading the political in Pynchon’s writing has fueled what could be called
a “political turn” in Pynchon criticism over the past ten to fifteen years.
This newer body of criticism has built on and consolidated the more
sporadic – but nonetheless significant – engagement with the politics of
Pynchon’s work that goes back to the beginnings of the “Pyndustry” in the
1960s. Key works from both critical eras are included in the Further
Reading section for this chapter.
Notes
1. Brian McHale, Postmodernist Fiction (London: Routledge, 1987), p. 16.
2. Fredric Jameson, Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism
(London: Verso, 1991), p. 1.
3. Terry Eagleton, The Illusions of Postmodernism (Oxford: Blackwell, 1996),
p. vii.
Politics and Counterculture 179
4. Eagleton, Illusions, p. vii. See also Chapter Thirty-Six of this volume,
“Postmodernism.”
5. Jameson, Postmodernism, p. 46.
6. Jameson, Postmodernism, p. 361.
7. Eagleton, Illusions, p. 5.
8. Eagleton, Illusions, p. 10. See also Charles Newman, The Postmodern Aura:
The Act of Fiction in an Age of Inflation (Evanston, IL: Northwestern
University Press, 1985).
9. Eagleton, Illusions, p. 21.
10. Linda Hutcheon, The Politics of Postmodernism, 2nd ed. (New York:
Routledge, 2002), p. 3.
11. Hutcheon, Politics, p. 90.
12. Shawn Smith, Pynchon and History: Metahistorical Rhetoric and Postmodern
Narrative Form in the Novels of Thomas Pynchon (New York: Routledge,
2005), p. 11.
13. The most overtly political example of Pynchon’s journalism is “A Journey
Into The Mind of Watts,” an article he wrote for the New York Times
Magazine and published on June 12, 1966.
14. See Joanna Freer, Thomas Pynchon and American Counterculture (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2014).
chapter 22
Though they became ubiquitous only after The Crying of Lot 49 (1966),
drugs can be found in all of Thomas Pynchon’s novels. In connection with
hippies, however, the hemp-smoking George Washington in Mason &
Dixon (1997) and the many mentions of those fin de siècle drugs opium,
laudanum, and absinthe in Against the Day (2006) must remain outside the
picture, as the periods in which those two novels are set come well before
the 1967 “Summer of Love.” Even The Crying of Lot 49, though it features
Mucho Maas’ “therapeutic” use of LSD, is more attuned to mock-
Hemingwayesque alcohol-abuse (Oedipa’s motel night with Metzger, for
example) than the systematic, almost encyclopedic, use of psychotropic
substances one finds in Inherent Vice (2009). The latter, with its “compa-
nion piece” Vineland (1990), may be read as Pynchon’s hippie (rather than
“freak,” insofar as one can find freaks in virtually every page of his fictions)
diptych, a sort of subset of the so-called California Trilogy (which also
includes The Crying of Lot 49). Here the connection between the hippie
lifestyle and drugs is not just in the foreground but acutely anatomized,
especially in Inherent Vice. A survey of drugs and hippies in Pynchon’s
oeuvre should thus start with Vineland, and then proceed through his 2009
hard-boiled narrative (or noir, as both definitions may apply to it).
As early as 1969, Theodore Roszak, one of the first commentators and
promoters of the counterculture, was complaining that young people “in
their frantic search for the pharmaceutical panacea” were being distracted
“from all that is valuable in their rebellion,” and that drugs threatened “to
destroy their most promising sensibilities.”1 Roszak was also wary of LSD
prophet Timothy Leary, as he had inculcated “upon vast numbers of young
and needy minds . . . the primer-simple notion that LSD has ‘something’
to do with religion.”2 In Vineland this “religious” side of drugs surfaces in
the words of two embittered but unrepentant hippies, Zoyd Wheeler and
Wendell “Mucho” Maas, when they reminisce about their youth in the
1960s: Then they knew, thanks to LSD, that they “were never going to die”
180
Drugs and Hippies 181
(VL 313).3 There is undoubtedly a religious side to this idea, as well as an
anti-authoritarian one, because Wendell immediately thinks of “they,” or
the State, who “thought they had the power of life and death. But acid gave
us the X-ray vision to see through that one” (VL 314). Deconditioning,
liberation, a higher level of awareness, possibly mystical, Blakean illumina-
tion: All this is within reach of the hippies thanks to drugs, weed, and LSD
first and foremost. Or this “was the way people used to talk” (VL 314), to
quote Pynchon’s ironic comment, which allows us to suspect he does not
wholly subscribe to this point of view.
However, Zoyd and Wendell know all too well that the mystical
moment of awareness was somewhat taken away from hippies like them,
and they blame the loss on “the Tube” that keeps them distracted, even on
rock and roll, which “is becoming [. . .] just another way to claim our
attention, so that beautiful certainty we had starts to fade, and after a while
they have us convinced all over again that we really are going to die” (VL
314), to put it in Wendell’s terms. But it is not just TV and the commo-
dified rock of the 1970s; there is also a shift in drug use – or abuse.
Wendell “Mucho” Maas first appeared in Lot 49 as the husband of the
protagonist, Oedipa.4 A former used car salesman, he unenthusiastically
works as a radio DJ, but at the end of the novel his life seems to have been
changed and (from his point of view) redeemed by psychedelic enlight-
enment: “You take [LSD] because it’s good. Because you hear and see
things, even smell them, taste like you never could [. . .] You’re an antenna,
sending your pattern out across a million lives a night, and they’re your
lives too” (CL 143–44). A DJ like Wendell conceives the effects of lysergic
acid in terms of radio transmission; besides, he immediately reconnects it
to music, something he knows quite well: “The songs, it’s not just that they
say something, they are something, in the pure sound. Something new.
And my dreams are changed” (CL 144). LSD generously supplied by
Dr. Hilarius, a psychotherapist who reads like a parody of Timothy
Leary, seems to have relieved Wendell of his disheartening, nihilistic
nightmares about the NADA sign (a clear allusion, incidentally, to
Hemingway’s “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place”). Oedipa is skeptical, how-
ever. Since her conclusive comment on Wendell’s transformation is “my
husband, on LSD, gropes like a child further and further into the rooms
and endless rooms of the elaborate candy house of himself” (CL 153), one
has to suspect that she cannot see any real improvement in Wendell.5
Oedipa may have a point, inasmuch as in Vineland Pynchon describes
Wendell’s further metamorphoses: After divorcing his wife he becomes
a record producer, and his use of LSD becomes so massive that he styles
182 umberto rossi
himself “Count Drugula” (VL 309); remarkably, he auditions (though does
not sign) Charles Manson, thus briefly getting in touch with the darkest
side of the hippie lifestyle. Then he switches to cocaine, “an unforeseen
passion he would in his later unhappiness compare to a clandestine affair
with a woman,” which brings him to a comedic “nasal breakdown,” and his
subsequent conversion to “The Natch” (VL 310–11), that is, a life without
drugs.
As for Zoyd, it is “the biggest block of pressed marijuana [he] had ever
seen in his life” (VL 294), planted in his house, that allows Hector Zuñiga
to arrest him and that will ultimately force Zoyd to accept the nefarious
deal with Brock Vond: He will have to disappear, so that Frenesi cannot
find him and Prairie. Once again, the agents of liberation turn into
instruments of imprisonment, enslavement, oppression.
For its part, Inherent Vice features a variety of drugs (heroin, hashish,
marijuana, LSD, barbiturates, cocaine, psilocybe, peyote, amyl nitrate, and
PCP, plus the dubious banana peels used as a psychotropic substance [IV
132, 140]) that appear with remarkable frequency (hemp derivatives are
mentioned or hinted at no less than eighty times). On the other hand, the
protagonist of the novel, Larry “Doc” Sportello, is as inveterate a hippie as
any other in US fiction, cinema, or comics: And it is his remarkable
consumption of marijuana that qualifies him as such, his occupation as
Private Investigator notwithstanding.
The novel presents readers with a symbolically charged opposition
between dope (hashish/grass) and smack (heroin), where the former drug
is the harmless, benign opposite of the latter, a destructive substance that
has almost killed Coy and Hope Harlingen, as well as their daughter
Amethyst. Moreover, heroin fuels the business of the Golden Fang, the
evil organization profiting from drug addiction and rehabilitation, and
somewhat connected to the conservative backwash of Governor Reagan
and President Nixon. Such a reading chimes in with Henry Veggian’s
interpretation of Vineland, where pot farmers with their “horizontal . . .
market organization” are opposed to “vertically integrated industrial
concerns.”6 The Golden Fang is indeed described in Inherent Vice as “[a]
vertical package. They finance it, grow it, process it, bring it in, step on it,
move it, run Stateside networks of local street dealers, take a separate
percentage off of each operation” (IV 159).
Yet a reading of the novel in terms of “good dope” versus “bad smack”
would be too simplistic. There are hippies who, like Doc and his pal Denis,
limit themselves to harmless grass/hashish, even though it may temporarily
impair their short-term memory; but the victims of smack, like Hope and
Drugs and Hippies 183
Coy Harlingen, are hippies, too. Something in the hippie mindset makes
them vulnerable to what Pynchon presents as the most formidable repres-
sive weapon used against the countercultural generation, heroin. Consider
the story of Coy Harlingen: On the basis of his heroin addiction he is
turned by the Golden Fang into a docile tool of Vigilant California, an
informant for the Red Squad and the Public Disorder Intelligence
Division, and a fake protester at a Nixon rally, used to give “revolutionary
youth a bad name” (IV 122). Drugs were taken by hippies to cleanse the
doors of perception, to set their minds free; yet Pynchon makes it clear that
those substances may lead to an even worse form of enslavement than the
loathsome ordinary life of the squares.
One may even wonder whether drugs – or their abuse – are not the
“inherent vice” that undermined the countercultural generation: Could
not drugs be what doomed hippies to defeat, preventing them from really
changing American society and then the world? Though this is not the only
possible reading of that title, it is surely a legitimate one, being (among
other things) a play on both Miami Vice, Michael Mann’s TV series
(1984–89), and the phrase “Vice Squad,” meaning a police division specia-
lized in containing or suppressing moral crimes (among which drug use
and trafficking are often included). However, Pynchon’s implicit criticism
does not stem obviously from a conservative stance, insofar as he himself
was – at least for a period – a hippie and drug-user. That, at least, is the
image presented by two portraits of the author as a young doper: Jules
Siegel’s larger-than-life “Who Is Thomas Pynchon . . . ?” and Andrew
Gordon’s more restrained (and credible) “Smoking Dope with Thomas
Pynchon.”7 In both articles the authors, who claim to have met the writer,
describe him as a grass-smoking hippie. Moreover, Pynchon is always
sympathetic to the hippies he portrays, and has an insider’s knowledge of
their lifestyle, including a familiarity with hemp derivatives. The narrator
may be ironic in his depiction of Larry “Doc” Sportello, Zoyd Wheeler,
and other hippies in Vineland and Inherent Vice, being aware of the
countercultural generation’s shortcomings, but Pynchon has made clear
throughout his writing career that he is part of it.
It is thus not so unthinkable that some of the hippies in Pynchon’s
oeuvre may be self-portraits of the writer, especially the protagonist of
Inherent Vice, Doc Sportello, cruising the psychedelic California of 1970
in a dopehead haze. Like Oedipa Maas in The Crying of Lot 49, striving to
decipher (or debunk) the Trystero, or Tyrone Slothrop in Gravity’s
Rainbow (1973), questing for the Rocket, Larry Sportello looks for
Mickey Wolfmann and the truth behind the Golden Fang, and his
184 umberto rossi
investigation structures the narrative itself, meandering as it may be. In his
inquiry dope makes for that ontological uncertainty that is one of the
fundamentals of postmodernist fiction; it might thus be read as a milder,
more benign form of the dreadfully destabilizing Substance D in another
postmodernist treatment of the Californian drug scene, Philip K. Dick’s
1977 novel A Scanner Darkly, arguably one of the sources for Vineland and,
to a lesser extent, Inherent Vice. At the same time drugs propel the fractal
plot of the latter novel, for example when Puck Beaverton puts Doc out of
action by means of a bogus joint that is “full of enough PCP to knock over
an elephant” (IV 317). As in Vineland, here we have drugs used as a weapon;
and Denis’s comment (“Acid invites you through the door [. . .] PCP opens
the door, shoves you through, slams it behind you, and locks it” [IV 318])
once more suggests an opposition between benign drugs (here LSD) and
maleficent ones (Phencyclidine or “Angel Dust”).
If we accept the idea that there are autobiographical elements scattered
throughout Pynchon’s oeuvre (his invisibility myth notwithstanding), we
might even hypothesize that Gravity’s Rainbow, though set in 1944–45, may
also hide hippies behind its dopers. Joanna Freer’s Thomas Pynchon and the
American Counterculture has proven beyond any reasonable doubt that
V. (1963), The Crying of Lot 49, and Gravity’s Rainbow relentlessly com-
ment on beats, hipsters, hippies, and other late twentieth-century
American malcontents; Jeffrey Severs’ article on Gravity’s Rainbow and
the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair has persuasively shown how the city in which
Pynchon was living while writing V. resurfaces in his 1973 novel, transmo-
grified into the “Raketen-Stadt.”8 Hence, reading Emil “Säure” Bummer as
an anamorphic image of a Californian pusher or drug dealer is not such
a reckless interpretive move; since Bummer is “the Weimar Republic’s
most notorious cat burglar and doper” (GR 365) one may well suspect that
his nickname (Säure, “acid” in German) only makes sense if Bummer is
read as the avatar of a 1960s doper, or LSD user (LSD-25 having only been
commercialized by the original manufacturer, Sandoz, as a psychiatric drug
in 1947).
Tyrone Slothrop may thus, at least in part, be another self-portrait of the
artist as a hippie doper, and the mission he is sent on by Bummer – to
retrieve a 6 kg package of “pure, top-grade Nepalese hashish” (GR 370) in
Potsdam – does sound like one of those tall tales told by stoners while
smoking a reefer, or one of those harebrained schemes to find dope in times
of need, like the Ouija board message that sends Doc Sportello and Shasta
on an unsuccessful quest for dope (and ironically takes them to the place
where the Golden Fang building is to be erected). There is general critical
Drugs and Hippies 185
agreement that the modified V-2/A4 launched by Blicero somehow turns
into the ICBM missile falling on the Orpheus movie theater at the end of
Gravity’s Rainbow; hence we may see the West Coast hippies of the 1960s
superimposed on the picaresque characters Tyrone meets while traveling in
the Zone in 1945.
One should also consider the “evil” drugs as metaphors for other ills of
postmodern civilization. When Doc Sportello and Denis meet the Golden
Fang emissaries to deliver the 20 kg heroin package in exchange for Coy
Harlingen’s life, for example, they face a “wholesome blond California
family” (IV 349) – that is, a bunch of archetypal straights. Pynchon takes
pains to inform us that there are no tracks on the father’s arms (something
which might be shown “by design”): He is no junkie. But drugs are in the
picture, at least as a potential ill (an inherent vice?); in fact the daughter
“had a possible future in drug abuse” (IV 349). Probably writing in the early
2000s, Pynchon knows all too well that the end of the countercultural wave
and the apparition of new juvenile lifestyles will not be the end of drugs
and drug addiction; that, with the arrival of punks, yuppies, emos, and the
like, the hippies will lose their “monopoly” on drug use and abuse; he is
also well aware that the new junkies will be indistinguishable from the
straights – that drugs will no more be the demarcation line between the
world of the dropouts and that of integrated individuals.
But the straights who come in their “’53 Buick Estate Wagon” to collect
the huge heroin package also force us to question the idea of addiction itself
(IV 349). Is that something that only has to do with drugs? Can people be
addicted to consumerism, money, property, status, power, just as junkies
are addicted to heroin and hippies may become psychologically addicted to
dope and/or LSD? Are the multiple forms of addiction plaguing the
straights better or worse than the officially sanctioned drug addiction
hitting hippies like Coy and Hope Harlingen, or Wendell “Mucho”
Maas in his cocaine years?
Last but not least, if – as Zoyd and Wendell maintain – it was the Tube
that distracted hippies from the truths discovered thanks to psychedelic
experiences, it is noteworthy that Doc Sportello finds Denis, deceived by
the carton of “a twenty-five-inch color TV set” in which Doc has put the
heroin, “sitting, to all appearances serious and attentive, in front of the
professionally packaged heroin, now out of its box, and staring at it” (IV
339). This comedic scene equates heroin and Tubal addiction, to put it in
Pynchon’s words, questioning the legal or illegal status of drugs, much as
Zoyd does in Vineland when he says “[t]hey didn’t [. . .] start goin’ after
dope till Prohibition was repealed, suddenly here’s all these federal cops
186 umberto rossi
lookin’ at unemployment, they got to come up with somethin’ quick, so
Harry J. Anslinger invents the Marijuana Menace, single-handed” (VL
311–12). Pynchon is telling us that some forms of addiction are sanctioned,
while others are not – based on reasons that are more political than medical
or social. His explorations of the countercultural and drug-happy 1960s
and their aftermath may thus be read not just as an experiment in
anamorphic autobiographical writing (though the autobiographical com-
ponent may play an important role, especially in Inherent Vice); they also
expand the discourse on global economic systems that had begun in
Gravity’s Rainbow with the idea of the Rocket State (to a certain extent
replaced by the Golden Fang), and their impact on US society: systems that
demand and foster manifold forms of addiction.
Notes
1. Theodore Roszak, The Making of a Counterculture: Reflections on the
Technocratic Society and Its Youthful Opposition (Berkeley, CA: University of
California Press, 1995 [1969]), p. 177.
2. Roszak, Counterculture, pp. 155–56
3. Virtual immortality achieved through drugs, with a strong religious subtext, is
what one finds in a minor classic of the countercultural 1960s, Philip K. Dick’s
The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch (1965), where blind faith in psychotropic
substances is already called into doubt.
4. Interestingly, Zoyd Wheeler also appears in another of Pynchon’s novels:
Inherent Vice.
5. For a different reading of this scene, cf. Johanna Freer, Thomas Pynchon and the
American Counterculture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), pp.
67–79.
6. Henry Veggian, “Profane Illuminations: Postmodernism, Realism, and the
Holytail Marijuana Crop in Thomas Pynchon’s Vineland,” in
Scott McClintock and John Miller (eds.), Pynchon’s California (Iowa City,
IA: Iowa University Press, 2014), pp. 135–64, p. 138.
7. Jules Siegel, “Who Is Thomas Pynchon . . . And Why Did He Take Off with
My Wife?” Playboy (March 1977), pp. 122, 168–72, 174; Andrew Gordon,
“Smoking Dope with Thomas Pynchon: A Sixties Memoir,” in Geoffrey
Green, Donald J. Greiner, and Larry McCaffery (eds.), The Vineland Papers:
Critical Takes on Pynchon’s Novel (Normal, IL: Dalkey Archive Press, 1994), pp.
167–78.
8. Jeffrey Severs, “‘A City of the Future’: Gravity’s Rainbow and the 1962 World’s
Fair,” Twentieth-Century Literature, 62.2 (June 2016), 145–69.
chapter 23
Pynchon’s Nature
Pynchon’s paranoid recognition “that everything is connected, everything in
the Creation” lends itself well to ecological approaches, for ecologists also
assume an interconnected world (GR 703). Ouroboros, the Great Serpent
that surrounds the planet while eating its own tail, is one of the most
striking figures of the cyclical terms of Pynchon’s natural vision (GR 412).
Furthermore, Pynchon’s Earth is no dumb mechanism, but “a living
187
188 christopher k. coffman
critter,” sentient as a whole and in parts (GR 590). Consequently, Tyrone
Slothrop realizes in Gravity’s Rainbow (1973) that “each tree is a creature
[. . .] aware of what’s happening around it, not just some hunk of wood”
(GR 552–53). The attitude is present as well in such passages as that in
Vineland (1990) in which natural features are declared points of access to
hidden orders of existence, a “realm behind the immediate” (VL 186).
Many of Pynchon’s landscapes offer glimpses of that other realm.
In Vineland it is manifest in the Seventh River, each part of which has its
own name and “its own spirit.” Local residents recognize that “this coast,
this watershed” is “sacred and magical” (VL 186). This aspect of nature is
perhaps most exceptional in Mason & Dixon (1997), where possibilities
range from whimsical giant vegetables to the “Tellurick Energies”
described via Ley Lines and Captain Zhang’s Earth Dragon, “from
which Land-Scape ever takes its form” (MD 218, 542). Lest one mistakes
landscapes alone as the source of nature’s promise, Pynchon also turns
attention to the ocean: In The Crying of Lot 49 (1966), Oedipa Maas finds
“some principle of the sea as redemption” because “no matter what you did
to its edges the true Pacific stayed inviolate and integrated” (CL 55).
In short, Pynchon usually presents nature as a living source of beneficence
and redemption.
Historical Contexts
As with the frustrated people and ruined land described in the article on
Watts, the anti-environmental impulse as it appears in Pynchon’s fictions
is imbricated with aggressive forces in the realms of politics and economics,
creating imbalances of social justice. None of this is to say that the loss of
access to nature should be regarded as a problem exclusive to the twentieth
century. Rather, Pynchon gives readers a history of the matter. One
evening at the Casino Hermann Goering in Gravity’s Rainbow, Slothrop
has a hint of the changed relations between humans and the rest of nature
when he glimpses “the kind of sunset you hardly see any more, a 19th-
century wilderness sunset, [. . .] when the land was still free and the eye
innocent, and the presence of the Creator much more direct.” At the same
time, he recognizes that, “of course Empire took its way westward, what
other way was there but into those virgin sunsets to penetrate and to foul?”
(GR 214). Like Winsome’s, Slothrop’s sense of what has been lost is situated
in relation to its supposed presence in the nineteenth century. The timeline
deepens in Mason & Dixon. In deploying their tools of measurement and
division, the surveyors mount an attack on all to be found
West-ward, wherever ’tis not yet mapp’d, nor written down, nor ever, by the
majority of Mankind, seen [. . .] Earthly Paradise [. . .] ever behind the
sunset, safe till the next Territory [. . .] be [. . .] measur’d and tied in, back
into the Net-Work of Points already known, that slowly triangulates its
Way into the Continent, changing all from subjunctive to declarative,
reducing Possibilities to Simplicities that serve the ends of Governments.
(MD 345)
The point resonates well with Frank Traverse who realizes it is the
same history of exile and migration, the white man moving in on the Indian,
the eastern corporations moving in on the white man, and their incursions
with drills and dynamite into the deep seams of the sacred mountains, the
sacred land. (AD 928–29)
Ecology and the Environment 191
The historical perspective finds a counterpart in Slothrop’s and
Pynchon’s family histories. At a moment in which he enjoys some reprieve
from the endemic sense of disjunction between humans and the rest of
nature, Slothrop becomes “intensely alert to trees,” and finds himself
implicated in the problem of their destruction via his family’s history of
paper manufacturing (GR 552). Similarly, Pynchon’s earliest ancestor in
America, who shares the given name William with Slothrop’s predecessor,
was, among his many other offices, the owner of a sawmill. In his capacity
as a magistrate, he also presided over or presented suit in a number of cases
to repossess lumber in the late 1630s.9 The topic returns in such forms as
the background presence of the logging industry throughout Vineland and
the clearing of trees to make the Visto in Mason & Dixon.
Another historical context for Pynchon’s ecological consciousness
derives from the environmental movement itself. While America’s relation
to nature has a complex history, the environmental movement coalesced
only after the publication of Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring in 1962.
As Schaub has explained, Carson’s book unfolded a network of individuals,
corporations, and government agencies that put Americans at risk of
danger from powerful chemicals – a very real vision of the invidious
interconnections to which Pynchon often turns.10 Carson’s book not
only inspired sweeping changes in terms of national awareness of and
political responses to environmental issues, but did so just one year before
V. and just over a decade before Gravity’s Rainbow. Her book and its
cultural impact were, therefore, very present as context for environmental
issues during the first part of Pynchon’s career.
Preservation
Slothrop’s communion with trees is brief, but articulates clearly the envir-
onmental stance of Pynchon’s novels. LeClair accurately asserts that
Pynchon offers a vision of “an old and newly conceived Earth” that calls
for redefinitions of the terms on which we understand, describe, and act
within the reciprocal systems of nature.11 The tools for that redefinition are
the complement of Pynchon’s portrayal of our alienation. Some resistance
is still to be found in the planet itself, chthonic manifestations of the
“Secret retributions” against those who disrupt Earthly harmony, to use
the language of the passage from Emerson quoted in Vineland (VL 369).
Among these are the Tatzelwurms that attack miners in Simplon in Against
the Day (2006), a vengeance by the spirits of the mountains visited upon
invaders.
192 christopher k. coffman
Accompanying the Earth’s response to technological affronts is human
resistance to disruptions of natural relations. A tree with which Slothrop
communicates recommends such an effort: “Next time you come across
a logging operation [. . .] find one of their tractors [. . .] and take its oil
filter” (GR 553). Such ecoterrorism is of a piece with contemporary works
like Edward Abbey’s The Monkey Wrench Gang (1975). It is also, however,
one with the actions of the Luddites of the early nineteenth century, who
smashed the knitting frames of the growing textile industry and lend
themselves as figures of suspicion regarding late-twentieth-century tech-
nological innovation in Pynchon’s article “Is It O.K. to Be a Luddite?”
Working alongside the ecoterrorists are others united in one fashion or
another with the land, such as the shaman Magyakan from Against the Day.
Like his home terrain of the taiga, he is “everywhere,” free from the limits
of time and space (AD 776). Likewise, the same novel’s Doosra is “a living
fragment of the desert” who pursues violent expulsion of various political
and religious systems from Inner Asia (AD 756). Here and elsewhere,
Pynchon offers characters working to defend the Earth on the basis of
what Eddins labels “Orphic Naturalism,” a faith in the interconnectedness
of mind and the natural world that stands apart from the anthropocentric
culture of technology and death.12
Notes
1. Thomas Pynchon, “A Journey into The Mind of Watts,” New York Times
Magazine, June 12, 1966, pp. 34–35, 78, 80–82, 84, p. 78.
2. Chris Coughran, “Green Scripts in Gravity’s Rainbow: Pynchon, Pastoral
Ideology and the Performance of Ecological Self,” Interdisciplinary Studies in
Literature and Environment, 16 (2009), 265–79, p. 268.
3. Keita Hatooka, “The Sea Around Them: Thoreau, Carson, and The Crying of
Lot 49,” Journal of the American Literature Society of Japan, 7 (2009),
17–31, p. 19.
4. Robert McLaughlin, “IG Farben’s Synthetic War Crimes and Thomas
Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow,” in M. Paul Holsinger and Mary Anne
Schofield (eds.), Visions of War: World War II in Popular Literature and
Culture (Bowling Green, OH: Bowling Green State University Popular
Press, 1992), pp. 85–95, p. 87.
5. Dwight Eddins, The Gnostic Pynchon (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University
Press, 1990), p. 19.
194 christopher k. coffman
6. Thomas Schaub, “The Environmental Pynchon: Gravity’s Rainbow and the
Ecological Context,” Pynchon Notes, 42–43 (1998), 59–72, p. 67.
7. Tom LeClair, The Art of Excess: Mastery in Contemporary American Fiction
(Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1989), pp. 47–48.
8. Christopher Breu, Insistence of the Material: Literature in the Age of Biopolitics
(Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 2014), pp. 69–78.
9. David M. Powers, Damnable Heresy: William Pynchon, the Indians, and the
First Book Banned (and Burned) in Boston (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock,
2015), pp. 76–77.
10. Schaub, “Environmental Pynchon,” p. 63.
11. LeClair, Art of Excess, p. 48.
12. Eddins, Gnostic Pynchon, p. 5.
13. Daniel R. White, Postmodern Ecology: Communication, Evolution, and Play
(Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1998), p. 208.
chapter 24
Notes
1. Samuel Thomas, Pynchon and the Political (New York: Routledge, 2007), p. 6;
Joseph Tabbi, Postmodern Sublime: Technology and American Writing from
Mailer to Cyberpunk (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995), p. 92.
2. Thomas Hill Schaub, “The Crying of Lot 49 and Other California Novels,” in
Inger H. Dalsgaard, Luc Herman, and Brian McHale (eds.), The Cambridge
Companion to Thomas Pynchon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2012), pp. 30–43, p. 40.
3. Thomas Pynchon, “Is It O.K. to Be a Luddite?” New York Times, October 28,
1984.
4. Thomas Pynchon, “Nearer, My Couch, To Thee,” New York Times Book
Review, June 6, 1993, pp. 3, 57.
5. Pynchon, “Couch.”
6. Luc Herman and Steven Weisenburger, Gravity’s Rainbow, Domination, and
Freedom (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2013), p. 208.
7. Boris Kachka, “On the Thomas Pynchon Trail: From the Long Island of His
Boyhood to the ‘Yupper West Side’ of His New Novel,” Vulture.com,
August 25, 2013.
202 jeffrey severs
8. Thomas H. Schaub, “Influence and Incest: Relations between The Crying of
Lot 49 and The Great Gatsby,” in Niran Abbas (ed.), Thomas Pynchon: Reading
from the Margins (Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2003),
pp. 139–53, pp. 151–52.
9. Michael Harrington, The Other America: Poverty in the United States (1962;
New York: Touchstone, 1997), p. 4.
10. Steven Weisenburger, “Gravity’s Rainbow,” in Dalsgaard, Herman, and
McHale, The Cambridge Companion to Thomas Pynchon, pp. 44–58, pp.
45–46.
11. William D. Clarke, “‘It’s My Job, I Can’t Back Out’: The ‘House’ and
Coercive Property Relations in Thomas Pynchon’s Vineland,” in
Sascha Pöhlmann (ed.), Against the Grain: Reading Pynchon’s
Counternarratives (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2010), pp. 185–212, p. 189.
12. Jeffrey Severs, “‘The abstractions she was instructed to embody’: Women,
Capitalism, and Artistic Representation in Against the Day,” in Jeffrey Severs
and Christopher Leise (eds.), Pynchon’s Against the Day: A Corrupted Pilgrim’s
Guide (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press, 2011), pp. 215–38.
13. Kathryn Hume, “Mason & Dixon,” in Dalsgaard, Herman, and McHale,
The Cambridge Companion to Thomas Pynchon, pp. 59–70, p. 65.
14. Catherine Flay, “After the Counterculture: American Capitalism, Power, and
Opposition in Thomas Pynchon’s Mason & Dixon,” Journal of American
Studies, 51.3 (August 2017), 779–804, p. 781.
15. Doug Haynes, “Under the Beach, the Paving-Stones! The Fate of Fordism in
Pynchon’s Inherent Vice,” Critique, 55.1 (2014), 1–16, pp. 4, 8.
chapter 25
203
204 dale carter
(2007): not in their sequence of publication but in relation to the historical
periods with which they primarily deal.2 While sacrificing detail and
nuance in relation to any one work, such an approach can illuminate
tropes and transitions that feature within and across many of them. This
is particularly so in their engagement with political, military, economic,
scientific, and technological power, and with their intersections under the
sign, or signs, of war.
Fields of Action
The State
Describing an historical trajectory across many types of conflict, Pynchon’s
fictions portray the dynamic nature of power as its contours and mechan-
isms change over time. In Mason & Dixon, the titular protagonists survey
not only a disputed eighteenth century colonial border but in the process
also chart traditional forms of authority, from religion to “ancient Magick”
(MD 487), being pushed off the map in the name of Reason and in the
interests of authorities keen to impose their settler-colonial designs and
Enlightenment precepts upon native people and the natural world. From
Pennsylvania and Cape Town via South-West Africa and the Sudan to
Nazi Germany, this white-supremacist imperial order, its exploitative labor
systems, and legitimations of violence also feature in V. and Gravity’s
Rainbow, both of which read retrospectively as elaborations of the nascent
forms of colonial domination later invoked in Mason & Dixon. Yet if
Herbert Stencil’s transcontinental pursuit of V.’s avatars follows imperial-
ism’s nineteenth-century extensions, in Gravity’s Rainbow the dismantling
of Tyrone Slothrop, sacrifice of Gottfried, and passing of Blicero enact its
mid-twentieth-century apotheosis and dissolution: power shifts that may
be read in terms of Hannah Arendt’s analysis of ideology and terror, all-
powerful parties, states, and leaders in The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951).
Foreshadowed in Gravity’s Rainbow, what lies historically and geogra-
phically beyond these shifts is portrayed in The Crying of Lot 49, in whose
mid-1960s California setting an affluent society is sustained by an activist
state and its Cold War military-industrial budgets. The arms race notwith-
standing, authority here prefers civilian dress to combat fatigues, offers
help rather than exacts punishment, and promotes social progress, cultural
diversity, and individual liberty while pre-empting dissent, improving
efficiency – and camouflaging its presence. Pitched into the world of
C. Wright Mills’ The Power Elite (1956) and Herbert Marcuse’s One-
War and Power 205
Dimensional Man (1964), Oedipa Maas finds responsibility divided, gui-
dance plentiful but unfathomable, and almost everything hallucinatory:
She endures Henry Miller’s air-conditioned nightmare inside Max
Weber’s bureaucratic iron cage.
In Pynchon’s fiction dealing with the post-1960s era, however, American
Dreamers suffer only rude awakenings. The mid-1980s setting of Vineland
shows the State turning (in Louis Althusser’s terms) from “ideological” to
“repressive”; and if ex-radical Frenesi Gates does not fall for federal
attorney Brock Vond in the same involuntary way that Gottfried had
surrendered to Blicero in Gravity’s Rainbow, the implication that the
counterculture helped catalyze the Reagan-era authoritarianism prefigured
in Benjamin Gross’ Friendly Fascism (1980) offers ironic commentary on
Marcuse’s “repressive tolerance” thesis.3 A yet more embattled, survivalist
neoliberal state busy putting Foucault’s biopower to work follows: What in
Vineland had taken the form of occasional raids on ex-hippies becomes in
Bleeding Edge a threat not only as pervasive and unpredictable as falling V-2
rockets in Gravity’s Rainbow, but also one of unprecedented range –
though set in a geographically circumscribed space, the novel beckons
toward a transnationalization of authority also explored in Michael
Hardt and Antonio Negri’s Empire (2000). Having traced imperialism
and war across continents and centuries, Pynchon’s latest work finds
security everywhere – and nowhere.
Business
Hardt and Negri, Gross, Marcuse, and Mills all identify major economic
(not least corporate) features on their contour maps of the power structure;
capital of many kinds also appears in Pynchon’s fictions, as do its agents.
Those who seek to disable magic and disengage the spiritual from the
material world in Mason & Dixon, for example, may do so in the name of
Enlightenment, yet one kabbalist condemns them as “Brokers of Capital,
Insurers, Peddlars upon the global Scale, Enterprisers and Quacks” work-
ing “in the service of Greed” (MD 487–88). Embodied by merchant-
diplomat Benjamin Franklin, these agents of “the coming Rebellion”
against Britain are the wave of the future – “Heaven help the rest of us”
(MD 487–88). In Against the Day, their descendants include mine-owning
industrialist Scarsdale Vibe, whose associated bad Vibes threaten to suborn
the state, frame opponents, oppress the public, and kill in the pursuit of
“wealth without conscience” (AD 83). In Gravity’s Rainbow they include
the transnational corporate cartels whose agent, “industrial heir” Walter
206 dale carter
Rathenau, dreams of an order “in which business would be the [. . .]
rightful authority” (GR 165), exercising control more effectively (perhaps
less brutally). Anticipated in Gravity’s Rainbow by entrepreneur Lyle Bland
and military-industrial behaviorist Edward Pointsman, that vision comes
to life in V. and The Crying of Lot 49 as US aerospace industry giant
Yoyodyne, Inc.: corporate symbol of the will or ultimate design of property
tycoon Pierce Inverarity, whose “estate” (CL 9) it is Oedipa’s responsibility
to unravel.
That her task appears less ruthless or contested than unending and hard
to grasp is a measure, here and elsewhere, of corporate extension conscript-
ing the State to its agenda while accommodating society and culture in the
process. Pressing “his meathooks well into the American day-to-day since
1919” (GR 581), Bland’s conglomerate encompasses finance and industry,
philanthropy and education, consultancy and policing, behavioral mod-
ification and surveillance, while those subject to its close attention range
from US president Franklin Roosevelt to Gravity’s Rainbow protagonist
Tyrone Slothrop. Yet if Yoyodyne started out manufacturing children’s
toys, its corporate dominion is scarcely benign. A mid-1960s southern
Californian incubator for the free market convictions that would carry
Ronald Reagan from state governorship to Vineland-era presidency, the
company also helps fertilize the soil on which predatory enterprises like
Golden Fang in Inherent Vice will later flourish. The narrator’s observation
in Gravity’s Rainbow – that the “true war is a celebration of markets” and
“the real business of the War is buying and selling” (GR 105) – implies that
the marketplace in which such operations would ultimately gain traction is
less an antidote to war than the locus of a more pervasive conflict.
Irregular Maneuvers
As “schizoid [and] double-minded in the massive presence of money as any
of the rest of us” (GR 712), the Counterforce in Gravity’s Rainbow is in no
position to counter the powers that be. Unable to resist “images of
authority, especially uniformed men” (VL 83), Frenesi Gates in Vineland
surrenders to federal authority. In spite, perhaps even because, of the
hippie-throwback rhetoric (“information has to be free”), March
Kelleher blogs in Bleeding Edge that “times of great idealism carry equal
chances for great corruptibility” and that even IT “nerds can be bought and
sold”: “you never know,” she cautions, “who works for them and who
doesn’t” (BE 116, 399). In Pynchon’s novels, in short, powerful forces seem
able to infiltrate, annex, and co-opt every domain they engage.
Yet wars imply adversaries and, even in Arendt’s totalitarian state and
Marcuse’s “society without opposition,” authority has limits.4 Throughout
Pynchon’s fiction, resistance to the status quo is also discernible if less than
explicit, abiding yet circumscribed, empowering though scarcely powerful.
Between the anarchist movement’s anti-corporate direct-action tactics of
Against the Day and the Counterforce’s phony war in Gravity’s Rainbow, it
may have disengaged from combat, adopted an underground stance, and
reconfigured its forces – but it has not surrendered. The cultural front that
runs through Inherent Vice and Vineland sustains, meanwhile, a dissident
heritage across the generations, even if old Left, new Left and counter-
culture are each unpicked or unravel in turn. What had once been com-
mon causes may have become isolated struggles, yet the public sphere is
still contested, albeit from more cultural and psychological, spiritual, and
metaphysical redoubts.
Read less as slow-motion defeats than as a locus of unconventional but
enduring resistance, these covert and irregular power struggles belong to
what Samuel Thomas dubs “fugitive politics”: “marginalized, problematic
and often downright strange” yet retaining a promise “of community, of
trust, of ethical relationships, of an innervated intimate and public life.”5
Such a politics takes diverse forms and has varied domains, concerns,
aficionados, and ends. Its collective expressions may seem purposeless or
out of touch; they risk being co-opted or demonized. But the Kunoichi
War and Power 209
Sisterhood in Vineland endures, while the Tristero and Peter Pinguid
Society, Inamorati Anonymous, and American Deaf-Mute Assembly in
The Crying of Lot 49 all communicate something that escapes the powers
that be: if not “treason” or “defiance” then a “calculated withdrawal” (CL
125) into an order that established authority can neither provide nor
understand. Fugitive politics may thrive in absence, marginality, or lack
of influence; within small-scale, low-tech, nomadic communities traver-
sing spaces for which power has no use; among the world’s poor and
preterite. It holds out in the fantastic, like March Kelleher’s “old
woman” fable in Bleeding Edge (BE 113–14) or Jesús Arrabal’s “anarchist
miracle” vision in The Crying of Lot 49 (CL 119–20), as well as in myth and
religion, dreams and the imagination, sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. Even
in the belly of the beast, human solidarity and humane values survive,
hidden in plain sight.
As for justification and inspiration, such irregular struggles for a non-
codified politics may invoke those passages where individual characters relate
their inheritance, experiences, and speculations to the impact of the powers
that be and those they have suborned. Isaiah Two Four in Vineland, for
example, who in the wake of countercultural dissolution chides the parental
generation for selling out “that whole alternative America [. . .] to your real
enemies” (VL 373). Oedipa Maas in The Crying of Lot 49, who in light of
“300 years of the house’s disinheritance [. . . and] with the chances once so
good for diversity,” asks herself “[w]hat was left to inherit?” (CL 179–81). Or
Tyrone Slothrop in Gravity’s Rainbow, who looks back to his own ancestor,
the dissenting New England minister William Slothop, and wonders if he
might have embodied the “fork in the road America never took, the singular
point she jumped the wrong way from” (GR 556).
Final Engagements
One way to describe a broad trajectory for the intersections of war and
power that feature in Thomas Pynchon’s novels is in terms of an arc. From
Mason & Dixon, across Against the Day, via sections of V. and onto Gravity’s
Rainbow, an industrializing colonial and imperial order builds, fueled by
a militarist dynamic culminating in World War II. Its nominally postwar,
postimperial, and postindustrial modulations take shape elsewhere in V.,
via The Crying of Lot 49 and Inherent Vice and through Vineland into
Bleeding Edge, with physical conflicts on the battlefield or in the workplace
being supplanted by other forms of war: struggles, in Gravity’s Rainbow’s
words, wherein the “civilians are outside, the uniforms inside” (GR 373).
210 dale carter
As the repressive tolerance of Marcuse’s one-dimensional order loses
patience between The Crying of Lot 49 and Vineland, however, so the
corporate liberalism that had once accommodated, seduced, and intoxi-
cated its domestic subjects without the use of force begins to yield to a more
authoritarian, coercive neoliberalism whose instincts are to discipline and
punish. Bleeding Edge measures the closing of this half-century’s “privileged
little window” (BE 432) in which the wars had been cold, not hot.
In the context of corporate globalization and aggressive nationalism, the
digital revolution, the dotcom bubble, and the World Trade Center’s
destruction, and with virtually every corner of existence subject to remili-
tarized security agendas, Pynchon’s latest novel also considers the prospects
of liberation. In Gravity’s Rainbow the question for wartime evacuees had
been whether the train they huddled onboard promised a “way out” or “a
progressive knotting into” (GR 3). In Bleeding Edge’s contemporary con-
juncture, the question becomes what kind of departure the Internet’s
“DeepArcher” might offer. Pynchon’s work on that earlier conflict offers
one – somewhat foreboding – answer: Whatever other methods may
promise, the powers that be had reassured themselves then that “in the
end it’s always the Army, isn’t it?” (GR 615).
Notes
1. Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri, Empire (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 2001), pp. 23–24.
2. Samuel Thomas, Pynchon and the Political (New York: Routledge, 2007),
pp. 15–16.
3. Louis Althusser, Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays (London: New Left
Books, 1971), pp. 135–42; Herbert Marcuse, “Repressive Tolerance” in Robert
Paul Wolff, Barrington Moore, Jr., and Herbert Marcuse, A Critique of Pure
Tolerance (Boston: Beacon Press, 1969), pp. 81–123.
4. Herbert Marcuse, One-Dimensional Man (Abingdon: Routledge, 2002),
p. xxxix.
5. Thomas, Pynchon and the Political, p. 154.
chapter 26
Notes
1. Don DeLillo, Running Dog (New York: Vintage, 1989), p. 58.
2. Jim Rutenberg, “In His Volleys, Trump Echoes a Provocateur,” New York
Times, February 20, 2017, p. B1.
3. Peter Knight, Conspiracy Culture: From Kennedy to the X-Files (Abingdon:
Routledge, 2000), p. 6.
4. David Cowart, “Pynchon and the Sixties,” Critique: Studies in Contemporary
Fiction, 41 (1999), 3–12, p. 4, quoted in Samuel Thomas, Pynchon and the
Political (New York: Routledge, 2007), p. 12.
5. Thomas, Pynchon, p. 6.
6. Joseph Tabbi, Postmodern Sublime: Technology and American Writing from
Mailer to Cyberpunk (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995), p. 92,
quoted in Thomas, Pynchon, p. 6.
7. Thomas, Pynchon, p. 7.
8. Thomas, Pynchon, p. 9.
9. Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia: Reflections on a Damaged Life (London:
Verso, 1974), p. 71, quoted in Thomas, Pynchon, p. 177.
10. Donald A. Landes, “Translator’s Introduction,” Maurice Merleau-Ponty,
Phenomenology of Perception (London: Routledge, 2014), p. xxxviii.
11. Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology, p. 154, p. 62.
12. Taylor Carman, “Foreword,” in Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology, p. xv.
chapter 27
Anarchy
In Pynchon’s early career it was his style – rather than his work’s politics –
that was most often linked to anarchism. This was despite the prominence
of anarchist characters in his first three novels: in V. (1963), Signor
Mantissa and the Gaucho are presented as embodying opposing sides of
an anarchist movement committed to political rebellion in Florence; in
The Crying of Lot 49 (1966), the Mexican insurgent Jesús Arrabal defines an
217
218 james gourley
“anarchist miracle” as “another world’s intrusion into this one” and is in
absolute opposition to the arch-capitalist Pierce Inverarity (CL 120); and in
Gravity’s Rainbow (1973) Felipe Squalidozzi advocates for an anarchist
resistance as part of the struggle occurring in his Argentinian homeland
as well as in the Zone in the aftermath of World War II. Pynchon’s
postmodernism has often been read as withholding his work from political
engagement; and yet it was the complexity and multiplicity of Pynchon’s
narratives that rendered anarchism a reference point in an attempt to
describe their function. V., The Crying of Lot 49, and Gravity’s Rainbow
are revolutionary; part of an anarchic literary movement that loosened the
hold of the modernists and the New Critics.1
George Levine was the first to figure anarchism as central to both the
style and politics of Pynchon’s work: “Anarchy becomes the kind of
aesthetic and political program of these novels, a risk whose possibilities
Pynchon doesn’t know, though he tried them out on different coordinate
systems, metaphors, signs.”2 In this way, Levine argues, Pynchon’s inno-
vative style challenges the reader to ask:
Might not that art be best – at this moment, in this place – that constantly
pushes toward the possibility of fragmentation? Might it be that not order
but anarchy is the most difficult thing to achieve in this culture?
The pressure toward anarchy, in a world structured to resist anarchy at
any cost, might release us, ironically, into a more humane order.3
Terror
Pynchon’s position as a writer focused upon the political use of violence
and terror has been clarified in the twenty-first century. This is primarily
a consequence of his early novels’ focus on war as the primary instance of
societal violence: especially World War I in V. and World War II (and the
Vietnam War) in Gravity’s Rainbow. It is also a function of the relative
security of the United States after Pearl Harbor, shattered by
the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks. Two of Pynchon’s three novels
published post-9/11 engage with this event. Against the Day is particularly
invested in the historical precursors to the 2001 attacks, whereas Bleeding
Edge considers historical precursors alongside the event’s consequences –
especially renewed imperialism and the rise of the surveillance state – while
affirming the importance of cultures of resistance.
Pynchon’s 2003 “Foreword” to Nineteen Eighty-Four gestures at the
consequences of governmental responses to 9/11, especially the infringing
of long-standing civil liberties seen in surveillance-enabling legislation such
as the USA PATRIOT Act. Against the Day, Pynchon’s first novel pub-
lished after the 9/11 attacks, clearly retains these concerns. In its early pages
it includes a vision of 1890s New York in the aftermath of catastrophe:
charred trees still quietly smoking, flanged steelwork fallen or leaning
perilously, streets near the bridges and ferry slips jammed with the entangled
carriages, wagons, and streetcars which the population had at first tried to
flee in, then abandoned, and which even now lay unclaimed, overturned,
damaged by collision and fire, hitched to animals months dead and yet
unremoved. (AD 150)
Notes
1. See Maarten Van Delden, “Modernism, the New Criticism, and Thomas
Pynchon’s V.,” Novel: A Forum on Fiction, 23.2 (1990), 117–36;
Brian McHale, Postmodernist Fiction (London: Routledge, 2004), pp.
21–25.
2. George Levine, “Risking the Moment: Anarchy and Possibility in Pynchon’s
Fiction,” in George Levine and David Leverenz (eds.), Mindful Pleasures: Essays
on Thomas Pynchon (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1976), pp. 113–36,
p. 132.
3. Levine, “Risking the Moment,” p. 117.
4. Graham Benton, “Daydreams and Dynamite: Anarchist Strategies of
Resistance and Paths for Transformation in Against the Day,” in Jeffrey
Severs and Christopher Leise (eds.), Pynchon’s Against the Day: A Corrupted
Pilgrim’s Guide (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press, 2011), pp. 191–213,
p. 191.
5. Samuel Thomas, Pynchon and the Political (New York: Routledge, 2007),
p. 152.
6. Joanna Freer, Thomas Pynchon and American Counterculture (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2014), p. 159.
224 james gourley
7. Freer, Thomas Pynchon and American Counterculture, p. 159.
8. See especially Kathryn Hume’s comments on “Pynchon’s support – at least
within the novel – for violence.” Kathryn Hume, “The Religious and Political
Vision of Pynchon’s Against the Day,” Philological Quarterly, 86.1–2 (2007),
163–87, p. 164.
9. Thomas Pynchon, “Foreword,” in George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four
(New York: Plume, 2003), p. viii.
10. Pynchon, “Foreword,” p. xvi.
11. See Sven Cvek, Towering Figures: Reading the 9/11 Archive (New York:
Rodopi, 2011), pp. 211–44; James Gourley, Terrorism and Temporality in the
Works of Thomas Pynchon and Don DeLillo (New York: Bloomsbury
Academic, 2013), pp. 106–09.
12. Annie McClanahan, “Future’s Shock: Plausibility, Preemption, and the
Fiction of 9/11,” symploke, 17.1–2 (2009), 41–62, 43 n4.
13. McClanahan, “Future’s Shock,” 43 n4.
14. For a considered reflection on novelistic responses to the September 11 attacks,
see John N. Duvall and Robert P. Marzec, “Narrating 9/11,” MFS Modern
Fiction Studies, 57. 3 (2011), 381–400, pp. 381–394.
15. See especially Michael P. Maguire, “September 11 and the Question of
Innocence in Thomas Pynchon’s Against the Day and Bleeding Edge,”
Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction, 58. 2 (2017), 95–107, who convin-
cingly argues for Against the Day and Bleeding Edge as the vanguard of a second
wave of 9/11 fiction that begins to fulfil Annie McClanahan’s call for
a historicized representation of the event.
chapter 28
Incarnations
In 1984 Pynchon complained that in “Entropy” he had “force[d] characters
and events to conform” to one scientific concept (SL 11). But in all his
novels characters occasionally act in ways that correspond exactly to the
scientific theories of their time. Thus in Mason & Dixon Mason finds
himself in a ship’s hull where lamb fat has “made frictionless ev’ry surface”
(MD 736) and is soon “[s]lipping and sliding like a veritable Newtonian
body.”4 In The Crying of Lot 49 a whole ballroom of deaf-mutes dance to no
music without colliding, as if driven by object-oriented programming.5
In Against the Day characters experience the epistemological uncertainty of
the science of their time, that of the crisis of classical physics.
The Quaternionists, for example, behave like the four-dimensional vectors
they study, and can change geographical position in an instant. In doing so,
more than incarnating postmodern indeterminacy, they dramatize “the
cusp between scientific theory and fact” (GR 652), which is analogous to
that between the novel and the world.
Scientists themselves have often been the source for Pynchon’s incarna-
tion of theories. A characteristic example is Maxwell’s Demon, which was
postulated by Clerk Maxwell to put the second law of thermodynamics to
the test, and which is supposed to sort out molecules to reduce entropy.
The demon is discussed at length by the characters in The Crying of Lot 49,
and again in Gravity’s Rainbow, where the narrative voice implies that
Science and Technology 227
scientists like the chemist Liebig sometimes act as “sorting demons,” and
that perhaps “Maxwell intended his Demon not so much as a convenience
in discussing a thermodynamic idea as a parable about the actual existence
of personnel like Liebig” (GR 411). The paradoxical reversal of
a microscopic demon postulated not to sort out molecules but to account
for the workings of scientific personnel is more than postmodern playful-
ness. The page is a space where fictitious characters, historical characters,
and imaginary scientific postulates can share the same degree of (non-)
existence and exchange polarities or scales because each, as in the real
world, is an actor in the sense of Bruno Latour’s actor-network theory,
according to which microbes, scientists, and bureaucrats alike are actors of
science.6
Engineering and technology need to create incarnations of scientific
theories even more acutely than science does. In V., two automata,
SHOCK and SHROUD, are better placed than any human being to
discuss and enact the change of paradigm from Newtonian mechanics,
and force, to nuclear physics, and radiation, which they are supposed to
measure and register respectively. In the real world, these incarnations of
science are essential to its development, as “the scientific act is, through and
through, a practical intervention and a technical performativity in the very
energy of its essence.”7 In the fictional world, they help to reflect on the
implications of both science and technology. Two examples stand out:
One, in Mason & Dixon, is Vaucanson’s mechanical duck, or rather its
fictitious female counterpart, which, like the “real” duck, can incarnate the
paradoxes of the relation between machines and living creatures; the other
is the fictional Rocket 00000 in Gravity’s Rainbow, which becomes an
actual religious object.
Figures
All these incarnations are in the spirit of novel-making, which has always
dramatized contemporary concerns through characters that are not always
human. But very often Pynchon confronts the words novels are made of
with their opposite, in the form of figures. Starting with the titles of many
of his novels, Pynchon establishes geometry as the unattainable, ideal
Other of literature. Witness the cusp of V. or of Bleeding Edge (2013), the
arc of Gravity’s Rainbow, the ampersand so prominent on the cover of
Mason & Dixon or the symmetry implied in Against the Day. Studying the
Snovian disjunction in Mason & Dixon, William Millard opposes the
famous motto of the Royal Society, nullius in verba, to the fabulists’
228 gilles chamerois
motto, “omnia in verba,” which “would foster more healthy skepticism
toward Lines.”8 But words should also be viewed with skepticism, and
some lines should be trusted more than words. In Bleeding Edge, set in
2001, fraud-investigating heroine Maxine Tarnow can read the truth of
Madoff’s swindle despite the hype surrounding his name because of the
“perfect straight line, slanting up forever” that his returns upon investment
show (BE 140).
In Gravity’s Rainbow, the shape of the double integral ∫∫, necessary to
control the rocket’s trajectory, reveals not only the letters of the Nazi SS
but also the inherent death-wish of the regime that produced them.
Pynchon traces this ominous “Summe, Summe” sign to Leibniz (GR
300) as a perfect representative of scientific rationality’s attitude to life
and change. He expresses this in a rare letter: “German Christianity being
perhaps the most perfect expression of the whole Western/analytic/‘linear’/
alienated schtick. It is no accident that Leibniz was co-inventor of calculus,
trying to cope with change by stopping it dead.”9 Pynchon repeatedly
opposes the figure of the cusp to the figural stasis of double integrals and
straight lines insofar as the cusp marks sudden change and unpredictabil-
ity, a key example being the “discontinuity in the curve of life” brought
about by a lightning strike (GR 664).
Invention
In Against the Day, in passages inspired by Nikola Tesla’s autobiography,
the scientist explains that the images of his inventions come to him in
literal flashes. More generally, as Derrida expresses it, “there is no invention
without the intervention of what was once called genius, or even without
the brilliant flash of a Witz through which everything begins.”10 Each of
these flashes brings a cusp, a “discontinuity in the curve of life,” because it
allows the engineer to see things “[a]s if time had been removed from all
equations” (AD 327), as Tesla expresses it.
The relation of invention to time is explored in other novels. In Gravity’s
Rainbow, Pynchon recalls August Kekulé’s supposed discovery of the
cyclical architecture of the benzene molecule in a dream vision of the
ouroboros, “the Great Serpent holding its own tail in its mouth” (GR
412). The discovery has a date, 1865, but as a circle the ouroboros knows no
beginning, and the benzene cycle existed before being discovered.
A structuring example in Mason & Dixon is the Transit of Venus, which
the two heroes are commissioned to study before and after they draw the
Line. It was first predicted, but not observed, by Johannes Kepler in 1631,
Science and Technology 229
and Jeremiah Horrocks’ 1639 observation was only posthumously pub-
lished. The two observations of 1761 and 1769 are key events that structured
the international community of scientists, which mediates, reproduces,
and checks discoveries, as “[t]he first time of invention never creates an
existence.”11 Pynchon characteristically alludes to this central concern with
minor echoes, for example the offhanded mention of Fermat’s Last
Theorem, formulated in 1637 but only proven in 1994, three years before
Mason & Dixon was published.
But of course Fermat’s Last Theorem was true even before it was
formulated, and the Transit of Venus had taken place for millions of
years. The first moment of invention then is akin to revelation, and is
often expressed as such in Pynchon’s work. The Riemann hypothesis,
referred to time and time again in Against the Day, was made in 1859 and
still has not been proven. Yashmeen Halfcourt is obsessed by it in a way
that mixes science, faith, and desire, another character recognizing “the
innocent expression of faith” and “that saint-in-a-painting look” she also
has with her lover, and reflecting that Riemann’s “Zeta function might be
inaccessible to her now as a former lover” (AD 937).12 The desire for
scientific truth is indeed the desire for an inaccessible other. It is always
deferred, often denied, and the horizon it eventually opens must be
unexpected and unforeseeable: “an invention has to declare itself to be
the invention of that which did not appear to be possible; otherwise, it only
makes explicit a program of possibilities within the economy of the
same.”13
To these inventions, the “inventions of the other,” Derrida opposes the
“invention of the same.”14 An example might be Thomas Edison,
a counterpart to the figure of Tesla in Against the Day, who claimed that
his inventions were purely and simply the application of a deductive
program that drew logical conclusions from the state of science.
Similarly, in Gravity’s Rainbow Pynchon insists on the terrible conse-
quences of Kekulé’s discovery because it led to an “economy of the
same,” through the systematic explorations and exploitations of the plastics
industry to which it gave birth.
Technology
Like industry, technology is driven by this anticipation of effects, and tends
toward comprehensiveness and control. Pynchon’s attention to the origins
of technologies is always accompanied with the certainty that all the
possibilities they entail will become fact. The bric-à-brac of the Arpanet’s
230 gilles chamerois
beginning in Inherent Vice (2009), the occasions for subversion it allowed,
are presented from a vantage point where the Internet has become the
pervasive symbol of a society of control. This filling-out of all the possibi-
lities is a true negation of the future, constituting what Michel Henry has
called “the new barbarism of our time,” precisely because “all the virtua-
lities and potentialities within it must be actualized, for them and for what
they are, for their own sake.”15 However, in equating the “invention of the
other” with science, and the “invention of the same” with technology, we
run the risk of falling into the very binary logic that Pynchon denounces
throughout his work.
First, the polarities could easily be exchanged. In one sense, the
impetus of science is toward totality and the unification of knowledge,
and that impetus is the butt of Pynchon’s constant criticism.
By contrast, technology could be seen as a bricolage that makes no
attempt at totalization, and the novels offer many positive images of
the engineer, such as Merle Rideout’s alchemical experimentations in
Against the Day, or Tesla as the last gentleman engineer. From this point
of view, the whole enterprise of Mason & Dixon is the search for the
“fork in the road” (GR 556) before the Snovian disjunction, when
D’Alembert could speak with Diderot, when engineers were still gentle-
men; and the text abounds in puns on the etymological closeness
between the two words, and with that of genius, all associated with
giving life. Similarly, for Joseph Tabbi the technology of Gravity’s
Rainbow’s rocket offers a better model for the text than the science
behind it: “The trajectory is mathematics, pure and transcendent; but
the rocket is engineering; first and foremost it is ‘raw hardware’ [. . .]
Using these distinctly non-transcendent, even dull details of space rock-
etry, readers of Gravity’s Rainbow might piece together a different, less
threatening image of technology.”16
Notes
1. Frank Palmeri, “‘Neither Literally nor as Metaphor’: Pynchon’s The Crying of
Lot 49 and the Structure of Scientific Revolutions,” ELH, 54.4 (Winter 1987),
979–99, p. 985.
2. Edward Mendelson, “Gravity’s Encyclopedia,” in George Levine and
David Leverenz (eds.), Mindful Pleasures: Essays on Thomas Pynchon (Boston:
Little, Brown and Company, 1976), pp. 161–95, p. 188.
3. In “Is It O.K. to Be a Luddite?” New York Times Book Review, October 28,
1984, pp. 1, 40–41, p. 41, Pynchon names the disjunction after C. P. Snow, who
gave a conference address on “The Two Cultures” in 1959.
4. Sean Ireton, “Lines and Crimes of Demarcation: Mathematizing Nature in
Heidegger, Pynchon, and Kehlmann,” Comparative Literature, 63.2 (2011),
142–60, p. 149.
232 gilles chamerois
5. Christopher J. McKenna, “‘A Kiss of Cosmic Pool Balls’: Technological
Paradigms and Narrative Expectations Collide in The Crying of Lot 49,”
Cultural Critique, 44 (2006), 29–42, p. 37.
6. See Bruno Latour’s work on Pasteur, The Pasteurization of France
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988).
7. Jacques Derrida, “Faith and Knowledge,” in his Acts of Religion, Gil Anidjar
(ed.) (New York: Routledge, 2002), pp. 40–101, p. 80.
8. William B. Millard, “Delineations of Madness and Science: Mason & Dixon,
Pynchonian Space and the Snovian Disjunction,” in Ian D. Copestake (ed.),
American Postmodernity: Essays on the Recent Fiction of Thomas Pynchon
(Oxford: Peter Lang, 2003), pp. 83–127, p. 108.
9. Thomas Pynchon, “Letter to Thomas F. Hirsch,” January 8, 1969, quoted in
David Seed, The Fictional Labyrinths of Thomas Pynchon (Iowa City, IA:
University of Iowa Press, 1988), pp. 240–43, p. 243.
10. Jacques Derrida, “Psyche: Invention of the Other,” in his Psyche: Inventions of
the Other, Volume I, Peggy Kamuf and Elizabeth Rottenberg (eds.) (Stanford,
CA: Stanford University Press, 2007), pp. 1–47, p. 418n.
11. Derrida, “Psyche,” p. 28.
12. Desire, etymologically associated with stars, is literally what drives Mason’s
astronomical impulse in Mason & Dixon.
13. Derrida, “Psyche,” p. 28.
14. Derrida, “Psyche,” p. 44.
15. Michel Henry, Barbarism (London: Continuum, 2012), p. 42.
16. Joseph Tabbi, Postmodern Sublime: Technology and American Writing from
Mailer to Cyberpunk (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995), p. 80.
17. Derrida, “Faith and Knowledge,” p. 83.
18. Tom LeClair, The Art of Excess: Mastery in Contemporary American Fiction
(Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1989), p. 42.
chapter 29
Mathematics
Nina Engelhardt
We might begin by asking: Why does “mathematics” merit its own entry
here? Should it not be covered in the previous contribution, “Science and
Technology”? Mathematics is an integral part of the sciences, and in many
respects the role of math and science in literature can usefully be examined
together. But mathematics is not a natural science such as physics, chem-
istry, or biology, which refer to nature and explain phenomena in the
physical world by means of observation and empirical evidence. Rather,
math is a structural science: It concerns relations between abstract entities,
and we do not learn about it from observation, as it is a product of human
thought. As such, math has a history of being compared with art: “mathe-
matics, though classified as a science, is equally an art,” Brian Rotman
writes in The Routledge Companion to Literature and Science; and sharing
characteristics with both the natural sciences and the arts and humanities,
math can be seen as a link between these “two cultures.”1 Attentive to the
specificity of math and its relationship to other disciplines, Pynchon’s
novels employ it not only as the epitome of reason but also to negotiate
the possibilities and limits of art and, particularly, of literary fiction.
Against the Day (2006) is the most obviously mathematical novel, but
metaphors, concepts, and models from math appear in other works, as
well, most significantly in Gravity’s Rainbow (1973) and Mason & Dixon
(1997).
Notes
1. Brian Rotman, “Mathematics,” in Bruce Clarke and Manuela Rossini (eds.),
The Routledge Companion to Literature and Science (London and New York:
Routledge, 2011), pp. 157-68, p. 157.
2. Isaac Newton, “a répandu la lumière des Mathématiques sur une science qui
jusqu’alors avait été dans les ténèbres des conjectures & des hypothèses”;
Alexis Clairaut, “Du système du monde, dans les principes de la gravitation
universelle,” in Histoire de l’Académie royale des sciences, année M. DCCXLV
(Paris: L’Imprimerie Royale, 1745), pp. 329–64, p. 329.
3. David Hilbert, “On the Infinite,” in Paul Benacerraf and Hilary Putnam
(eds.), Philosophy of Mathematics: Selected Readings (Oxford: Blackwell, 1964),
pp. 134–51, p. 141.
chapter 30
Thomas Pynchon’s novels have plenty to say about time. V. (1963) and
Mason & Dixon (1997), in different ways, put history in conversation with
the author’s own time. Time travel crops up in Vineland (1990), Against
the Day (2006) and Bleeding Edge (2013). Gravity’s Rainbow (1973) pits
determinism against randomness and novelty. Different ways of thinking
about time are prominent in critical readings of Pynchon: This chapter
describes some arguments about time as both theme and principle of
narrative organization, and highlights some telling details of the novels
themselves. Against the Day is important for readers interested in Pynchon
and time because it is set in the closing decades of the nineteenth
century and the early part of the twentieth, when H. G. Wells’ The Time
Machine and influential contributions to the philosophy of time by Henri
Bergson and William James appeared, Futurists and Cubists transformed
the way art depicts time and movement, and modernism began to change
how literature represents time. In 1905 Albert Einstein overturned centu-
ries of scientific thinking about time. Isaac Newton declared that time
“flows equably without relation to anything external.”1 But the special
theory of relativity, set out in Einstein’s “On the Electrodynamics of
Moving Bodies,” entails the “relativity of simultaneity”: Two events
appearing simultaneous to one observer may, to another, occur
consecutively.2 There is no universal present, no unique chronology.
Hermann Minkowski gave an address in 1908, later published as
“Space and Time,” offering a geometrical interpretation of Einstein’s
special theory of relativity through the idea of the space-time conti-
nuum. Minkowski claims that “space by itself, and time by itself, are
doomed to fade away into mere shadows, and only a kind of union of
the two will preserve an independent reality.”3 Consider two events at
different points in space, each defined by coordinates in four dimen-
sions, three of space and one of time. They are separated by a space-
time interval that remains constant in all frames of reference. Einstein’s
239
240 simon de bourcier
theory implies that while one observer will view these events as sepa-
rated by a certain distance in space and a specific period of time,
another, moving at high speed relative to the first, will see the interval
between the events distributed differently between the four axes of
space and time. Neither observer is wrong: There is no absolute frame
of reference that can adjudicate between them. In Against the Day
Minkowski gives the same lecture at the First International
Conference On Time Travel (F.I.C.O.T.T.): Details mentioned by
Roswell Bounce and Merle Rideout correspond closely to the text of
“Space and Time” (AD 458).4 I shall come back to what Roswell and
Merle (and Pynchon) do with this startling information shortly.
Another consequence of relativity is important for Pynchon studies.
Throughout the nineteenth century scientists assumed that there must be
a medium through which light waves travel. They called it the Æther
(sometimes spelled “ether”), a name borrowed from the ancient Greeks.
This luminiferous, or light-bearing, Æther was thought to be more rarefied
than visible matter and to permeate all of space. The special theory of
relativity dispensed with the “luminiferous ether.”5 Science’s abandonment
of the Æther is a major theme in Against the Day. Merle and Roswell
become friends as part of the “Ætherist community” in Cleveland, Ohio, at
the time of Michelson and Morley’s unsuccessful attempt to detect the
Earth’s passage through the Æther (AD 60). At the novel’s end the Chums
of Chance hook up with the Sodality of Ætheronauts, their female counter-
parts who fly using “Æther-aerials”: in the fiction-within-a-fiction of the
Chums’ adventures the universe is still pervaded by the Æther (AD 1031).
The Æther functions for Pynchon as a token of the fictionality of scientific
constructs and a focus of nostalgia for lost belief.
Time Machines
Time travel emerges as a theme with Vineland. It can be simply a metaphor
for reminiscence – Takeshi and Minoru take “a nice spin in the time
machine” (VL 147) – but when Zoyd Wheeler watches a van whisking his
daughter away, imagining it as “a time machine departing for the future,
forever too soon,” something more interesting happens (VL 55). The image
encompasses two movements: the van’s motion through space, and the
passing of time, which seems, to Zoyd, to be too quick. The idea of a time
machine depends, as Wells knew, on seeing time as “a kind of space.” It is
therefore an apt image for a vehicle moving through space that also
represents accelerated travel into the future. The phrase “forever too
soon” conjures up a paradoxical temporality in which the future arrives
faster than it should, but this rapidity is itself suspended in time, lasting
“forever.” The linguistic and narrative potential of the time travel story
seethes below the surface of this sentence. In Against the Day Pynchon will
immerse himself in those possibilities. In Vineland they remain just out of
sight, but nevertheless enable this deceptively simple simile to express
a father’s longing.
In the world of Vineland real time travel is an impossibility. Takeshi
quips that his “Time Machine’s in the shop” (VL 193). In Against the Day,
time machines play a significant part in the adventures of the Chums of
Chance: Two of the Chums go for a terrifying ride in Dr. Zoot’s time
machine; later, a visit to the F.I.C.O.T.T. results in their first encounter
with Trespassers from the future.
244 simon de bourcier
In Against the Day Pynchon dramatizes two kinds of time that fit nicely
into the binary schemes critics find in Gravity’s Rainbow (outside/inside,
horological/chronometric): time as Wells imagined it – the fourth dimen-
sion of space – and time as Einstein and Minkowski reconceptualized it
a decade later. He tells stories about them using two very different time
machines. Dr. Zoot offers Chick Counterfly and Darby Suckling a cheap
ride “then and back” in his Wellsian contraption (AD 402).
The substitution of “then and back” for “there and back” emphasizes
that this is a journey through spatial time. It proves to be a terrifying trip
into an “apocalyptic” future, perhaps into death itself (AD 409).
However, Pynchon also describes another time machine. After listening
to Minkowski’s lecture, Merle and Roswell decide to “translate” his ideas
into “hardware” (AD 459): The Integroscope allows them to “unfold the
future history” of people in photographs, and “look into their pasts” (AD
1049). It can also send people along “different tracks,” into “other possi-
bilities.” The physics of Einstein and Minkowski, in which time yields
multiple chronologies for different observers, enables, Pynchon suggests,
a more “compassionate time-machine story.” When the Integroscope
shows Lew Basnight his lost wife Troth, Lew experiences “time travel in
the name of love” – perhaps what Pynchon’s fiction aspires to be (AD
1060).
In Inherent Vice (2009) time travel is a feature of Doc Sportello’s LSD
trips, and part of his mental vocabulary, but the chronology of the novel
does not suggest time travel exists in its world (IV 106, 121, 273, 355).
In Bleeding Edge, however, Maxine Tarnow stumbles upon a military time-
travel program that readers of Against the Day must recognize as the origin
of the Trespassers who travel back in time to steal the Chums’ innocence
“and take it away with them to futurity” (AD 416). In both time travel plots
the predatory travelers are men whose own childhood innocence has been
stolen, suggesting that this is a metaphor for generational cycles of abuse.
“Those poor innocents,” says one of the Chums. “Back at the beginning of
this . . . they must have been boys, so much like us . . .” (AD 1023). Maxine
imagines the sinister Windust as “an innocent kid” recruited to become
a time traveler (BE 243).
Conclusion
Critics have long recognized that Pynchon is interested in uncertainty and
the disruption of linear time and causality, but he does not simply invoke
relativity to license postmodern relativism and indeterminacy. His later
Time and Relativity 245
fiction explores the difference between Wells’ spatial time and the space-
time of twentieth-century physics, mapping them on to the dichotomy of
determinism and lived duration that has always been a theme of his
writing. Spatial time is associated with time travel as a metaphor for
intergenerational violence, whereas space-time enables a version of time
travel that is (to borrow a useful distinction from Frank Kermode) “[t]ime-
redeeming” rather than “time-defeating.”19
Notes
1. Isaac Newton, Sir Isaac Newton’s Mathematical Principles of Natural
Philosophy and His System of the World [Principia Mathematica], 1687, trans.
Andrew Motte, Vol. I: The Motion of Bodies (Berkeley, CA: University of
California Press, 1934), p. 6.
2. Albert Einstein, Relativity: The Special and General Theory: A Popular
Exposition, trans. Robert W. Lawson (London: Methuen, 1920), p. 26.
3. H[ermann] Minkowski, “Space and Time,” in H. A. Lorentz et al.,
The Principle of Relativity, trans. W. Perrett and G. B. Jeffery (Mineola,
NY: Dover, 1952), pp. 73–91, p. 75.
4. Minkowski, “Space and Time,” p. 88.
5. Albert Einstein, “On the Electrodynamics of Moving Bodies,” in Lorentz
et al., Principle of Relativity, pp. 35–65, p. 38.
6. H. G. Wells, The Time Machine: An Invention, Leon Stover (ed.) (Jefferson,
NC: McFarland, 1996), p. 30.
7. Henri Bergson, Duration and Simultaneity, trans. Mark Lewis and Robin
Durie (Manchester: Clinamen, 1999), p. vi; Henri Bergson, Time and Free
Will: An Essay on the Immediate Data of Consciousness, trans. F. L. Pogson
(Mineola, NY: Dover, 2001), pp. 108–09.
8. Kurt Gödel, “A Remark about the Relationship between Relativity Theory
and Idealistic Philosophy,” in Paul Arthur Schilpp (ed.), Albert Einstein:
Philosopher Scientist (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), pp.
555–62, p. 557; Milič Čapek, The Philosophical Impact of Contemporary
Physics (New York: Van Nostrand, 1961).
9. Wells, Time Machine, p. 5.
10. Molly Hite, Ideas of Order in the Novels of Thomas Pynchon (Columbus, OH:
Ohio State University Press, 1983), p. 101.
11. Thomas H. Schaub, Pynchon: The Voice of Ambiguity (Urbana, IL: University
of Illinois Press, 1981), p. 10.
12. Bergson, Duration and Simultaneity, p. 112.
13. Hite, Ideas of Order, pp. 133, 144.
14. Marcus Smith and Khachig Tololyan, “The New Jeremiad: Gravity’s
Rainbow,” in Harold Bloom (ed.), Thomas Pynchon (New York: Chelsea
House, 1986), pp. 139–55, p. 143.
15. Smith and Tololyan, “New Jeremiad,” p. 146.
246 simon de bourcier
16. William James, “The Dilemma of Determinism,” The Will to Believe and
Other Essays (New York: Longmans, Green, 1897), pp. 145–83, p. 181.
17. James, “Dilemma,” pp. 177, 181.
18. John A. McClure, Partial Faiths: Postsecular Fiction in the Age of Pynchon and
Morrison (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2007), p. 36.
19. Frank Kermode, The Sense of an Ending (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2000), p. 52.
chapter 31
Philosophy
Martin Paul Eve
Pynchon’s prose becomes a parable, one that shows the violence of this
“passing over” of huge swathes of people for the benefit of a few, that uses
religious motifs and structures to provide a clear critique of both industrial
capitalism and ecological damage. Among many other things, this passage
is a great example of this blending of the religious with the political. There
is no dividing line – the religious is the political in Pynchon’s worlds. Clear
references are also made to Walter Benjamin’s work on history. In his
analysis of Paul Klee’s Angelus Novus, Benjamin describes how a “storm is
Religion and Spirituality 257
blowing in from Paradise” catching the wings of this “angel of history . . .
with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. This storm
irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while
the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call
progress.”9
So, in postsecular terms, election and the world of the elect present us
with orthodoxy: a religious status that presents us with one way of seeing
the historical at the expense of the heterodoxy of the preterite. Pynchon
takes this notion even further to reform Calvinism into a philosophical
standpoint in which preterition is the ethical position. On the Gnostic
symbol of the Ouroboros, he writes: “The Serpent that announces,
‘The World is a closed thing, cyclical, resonant, eternally-returning,’ is to
be delivered into a system whose only aim is to violate the Cycle” (GR 412).
Pynchon is not only ascribing a Calvinist system to secular power struc-
tures here, but using it to critique them. The supposed grace of election
becomes a critique of capital, ecological destruction, and social exploita-
tion. These theological systems are not then “debunked” as negatives, but
are instead allowed to reform into something hopeful and salvific. This can
be called Pynchon’s “double quality” when it comes to religions: some-
thing that recurs across his texts. He seems to be less interested in the
dogmatic nature of a particular religious system than in how it can be
applied or adapted into a framework for either a system of resistance or
a system of oppression. As a result, we can see a religion being both
critiqued and valorized in the same space. He is more interested in how
religions are situated, reformed, and deployed in the world.
But does Pynchon reform Calvinism into a religion of preterition?
The image of the Rocket that pervades Gravity’s Rainbow reflects this
double quality. It is not only a distilled image of destruction but also one
that suggests escape and renewal. In The Grim Phoenix, William Plater
states that the Rocket is “a perfect symbol of the continuity between life
and death, the Rocket offers both the illusion of its own independent life,
all the while promising death.”10 Indeed, the Rocket presents us with
a kind of covenant that teeters between a religious sense of hope and an
apocalyptic destruction: “This ascent will be betrayed to Gravity [. . .]
The victim, in bondage to falling, rises on a promise, a prophecy, of
Escape . . .” (GR 758). The double quality of the Rocket is further expressed
in the two Rockets named in the novel: the 00000 and the 00001.
The 00000 belongs to Dominus Blicero. His goal is one of death, to
construct a rocket that encapsulates the divinely sanctioned death impulse.
Blicero represents with this notion his divine position as one of “God’s
258 richard moss
spoilers. Us. Counter-revolutionaries. It is our mission to promote death”
(GR 720). If we are looking for a secular analog to Blicero’s Rocket-
Priesthood, we can see the dual evils of rampant scientism and fascism.
The 00001 is the rocket belonging to the Herero Schwarzkommando,
a division of African soldiers who fought for the Nazis, and have been
ushered into being by a British propaganda film. The Schwarzkommando
is the most emblematic of any preterite community across the novel. Its
members have built for themselves an animistic religion around the notion
of a life-renewing rocket, the key tenet of which revolves around their
ontological instability and inevitable oblivion, conditions expressed
through the very language that Pynchon uses to lament the “passing
over” of the preterite. The Schwarzkommando is symbolized by the
aardvark, suggesting an earthbound trajectory, an acceptance and therefore
a religious imperative to be resigned to death. Even their motto of mba-
kayere (“I am passed over”) suggests a complicity in their preterite status,
while their adoption of a symbol of the rocket drawn top-down (a parallel
to an actual Herero religious symbol) suggests a unity between the oppres-
sive and destructive power of the technology and their animistic origins.
In this way, Pynchon manages to rob the traditional status of preterition
of power, allowing the Schwarzkommando to perform a ritual suicide that
resists Western orthodoxy. The Western concept of death is replaced with
the Herero concept – that being a return to unity, a counter-notion that
exists across Pynchon’s corpus, and something that Joseph Slade refers to as
his “almost Emersonian faith in the unity of Creation.”11However, this is
not a simple acceptance of the Schwarzkommando’s absentee status, but
something that also has political “teeth.” H. G. Luttig in his study of the
Herero equates the act of “ritual suicide” to “political struggle,” and, as
Steven Weisenburger points out, the reason why the suicide of the
Schwarzkommando is political is that “the dead are capable of bringing
about evil and death more effectively than the living.”12 Here we see the
heterodox approach to religion and politics in action. The preterite accept
their position in the orthodoxy, but find ways within the structure to both
establish a fluid religion of their own and to take political action against
their oppressors.
Pynchon established a heterodox counter-religion out of seemingly
aggressive religious structures in this early novel. He continued and
adapted this in one of his later texts, Vineland, in which a similar approach
to the one Pynchon takes in Gravity’s Rainbow is adjusted. While the
former novel expresses a counter-theology in terms of small, fleeting
zones of resistance, Vineland endeavors to establish communities that are
Religion and Spirituality 259
sustainable, functional, and politically viable. Pynchon moves beyond
McClure’s notion of these zones of theological resistance being “partial”
faiths.
If Gravity’s Rainbow is about the reappropriation of otherwise oppressive
and destructive religious systems, Vineland performs a more complex
transformation: that of reappropriating the misappropriated. The most
ubiquitous religion on show in the novel is Zen Buddhism, which is
initially presented in its social context of California in 1984 – appropriated,
packaged, and consumerized by late twentieth-century capitalism.
The inclusion within the novel of an Eastern religion allows Pynchon to
explore its contemporary position as exemplified in the fetishization of
Japanese culture that took place in America in 1970s and 1980s film and
literature, the adoption of Buddhism by the Beats and then the hippie
culture overall and the general Orientalizing of the “look east” attitude of
the postwar United States. Pynchon presents this capitalist appropriation
of Buddhism in all of its absurdity, characterized most conspicuously in the
Bodhi Dharma Pizza Parlor, a place that allies the spiritual sincerity of
Buddhism with the hilarity of an ill-advised pizza joint. It is in these
moments, however, that Pynchon’s “double quality” manifests itself
again. When standing inside the restaurant, Zoyd Wheeler detects a hint
of something salvific: “He stood beneath a stained-glass window made in
the likeness of an eightfold Pizzic Mandala, in full sunlight a dazzling
revelation in scarlet and gold, but at the moment dark, only tweaked now
and then by the headlights out in the street” (VL 51). The promise of
a revelation is hinted at here, much like the promise of revelation “between
the gaps” we see in Gravity’s Rainbow.
It is important to note that Pynchon, in his “taking back” of religion
from the mundane to the salvific, does not attempt to take back the religion
as it once was. The salvific Zen material in the novel is not Zen as it was
before the cultural appropriation, but what Kathryn Hume calls “a third
territory.”13 The absurd blend of the divine and profane is still present in
the religious communities, but instead (much like the Herero appropria-
tion of Calvinism in their own constructed theology) it is treated with
utmost sincerity and religious conviction. Ridiculous images of spiritual
con-artistry, such as the Orgonometer in Vineland (a comedic take on
similar teachings in Scientology), work if you are using them sincerely for
resistance, and magic works if used correctly and ethically. The best
example of this in the novel involves the Kunoichi Sisterhood,
a politically savvy collective of pan-national female ninjas. They subsist
by selling out a commercialized kind of Zen, “a sort of Esalen Institute for
260 richard moss
lady asskickers” (VL 107), but at their core are deeply devoted to their
religion despite its amalgamation of consumerism and American fetishism.
As Sister Rochelle, the de facto leader of the Sisterhood says, “Common
sense and hard work’s all it is [. . .] finding that knowledge won’t come
down all at once in any big transcendent moment. [. . .] Here it’s always
out at the margins, using the millimeters and little tenths of a second, you
understand, scuffling and scraping for everything we get” (VL 112). Despite
the outward appearance of the Kunoichi, Rochelle is possibly the closest
character Pynchon has to what we could call a high-priest of the preterite.
As Samuel Thomas writes, she “has a quiet solemnity that comes from
years of minimal gain for maximum effort.”14 Such postsecular spaces, in
regard to how an older Pynchon formulated them, come only at great effort
and cost, and are always geared toward a sustainable political goal.
The postsecular trajectory I have plotted across Pynchon’s work here
suggests how Pynchon can be considered a religious writer, and how the
amalgam of the theological and the political progresses across his work.
Of course, this engagement with politics is not the only use of religion in
the texts. The very structure of his narratives is informed by theology.
To give one example, his adoption of the detective narrative is inflected
through religion: Oedipa Maas’ journey through The Crying of Lot 49
(1966) can be seen as a Gnostic pilgrimage through “hieroglyphic streets,”
while in V. (1963) Herbert Stencil’s quest for the woman “V.” can also be
viewed through Gnostic mysticism. This brief foray into the postsecular
Pynchon shows the core mechanics at work in his theologies. The political
is the religious, and the very structure of his writing is informed by
theology. In simple terms, Pynchon’s novels are biblical in scope,
a sacred text to the heterodox world of the lost and the forgotten, complete
with their own prophecies, messiahs, and faiths.
Notes
1. John Stark, Pynchon’s Fictions (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 1980),
p. 120.
2. This idea of Molly Hite’s is that Pynchon’s novels are in orbit around a center
of understanding or revelation, but never proceed beyond orbiting that center.
More can be read about this concept in Hite, “‘Holy-Center-Approaching’ in
the Novels of Thomas Pynchon,” Journal of Narrative Technique, 12.2 (1982),
121–29.
3. John McClure, Partial Faiths (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2007),
p. 19.
4. McClure, Partial Faiths, p. 19.
Religion and Spirituality 261
5. McClure, Partial Faiths, p. 4.
6. McClure, Partial Faiths, p. 4.
7. McClure, Partial Faiths, p. 31.
8. McClure, Partial Faiths, p. 20.
9. Walter Benjamin, “Thesis on the Philosophy of History,” in Benjamin,
Illuminations, trans. Harry Zorn (London: Pimlico, 1995), p. 249.
10. William Plater, The Grim Phoenix (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University
Press, 1978), p. 157.
11. Joseph Slade, Thomas Pynchon (New York: Warner Paperback Library, 1974),
p. 153.
12. Hendrik Gerhardus Luttig, The Religious System and Social Organization of the
Herero: A Study in Bantu Culture (Utrecht: Kemich en Zoon, 1933);
Steven Weisenburger, A Gravity’s Rainbow Companion (Athens, GA:
The University of Georgia Press, 1988), p. 192.
13. Kathryn Hume “The Religious and Political Vision of Against the Day,” in
Jeffrey Severs and Christopher Leise (eds.), Pynchon’s Against the Day:
A Corrupted Pilgrim’s Guide (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press,
2011), pp. 167–190, p. 172.
14. Samuel Thomas, Pynchon and the Political (New York: Routledge, 2007),
p. 139.
chapter 33
Notes
1. See, for example, Joseph Tabbi, Postmodern Sublime: Technology and American
Writing from Mailer to Cyberpunk (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995),
pp. 74–126.
2. Jeffrey T. Nealon, Double Reading: Postmodernism after Deconstruction (Ithaca,
NY: Cornell University Press, 1993), p. 122.
3. For a more detailed analysis of the Rathenau passage in Gravity’s Rainbow, see
Tiina Käkelä-Puumala, Other Side of This Life: Death, Value, and Social Being
in Thomas Pynchon’s Fiction (Dissertation, University of Helsinki, 2007),
pp. 80–91: helda.helsinki.fi/handle/10138/19384.
4. Thomas Pynchon, “Mortality and Mercy in Vienna,” Epoch, 9.4 (Spring 1959),
pp. 195–213.
5. Parallel lives can also be understood in relation to the themes of bilocation (that
is, the ability to be in two places simultaneously) and time travel that are central
to Against the Day. In the novel, Pynchon elaborates late nineteenth-century
theorization on time as the fourth dimension that would connect past, present,
and future into a single spatial continuum.
6. Tiina Käkelä-Puumala, “Postmodern Ghosts and the Politics of Invisible Life,”
in S. Kivistö and O. Hakola (eds.), Death in Literature (Newcastle upon Tyne:
Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2014), pp. 83–101.
7. John Durham Peters, Speaking Into the Air: A History of the Idea of
Communication (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1999), pp. 100–03.
8. Peters, Speaking, pp. 100, 142.
Death and Afterlife 269
9. In Pynchon’s latest novel, Bleeding Edge (2013), some dead people continue
their existence as avatars in a virtual reality, and the living can interact with
them.
10. Stephen Mattessich, Lines of Flight: Discursive Time and Countercultural
Desire in the Work of Thomas Pynchon (Chapel Hill, NC: Duke University
Press, 2002), p. 95.
11. Steven Weisenburger, “Haunted History and Gravity’s Rainbow,” Pynchon
Notes, 42–43 (Spring-Fall 1998), 12–28.
12. Weisenburger, “Haunted,” 16.
13. On the carnivalistic Menippean attitude toward death in Vineland, see
T. Käkelä-Puumala, “Other Side,” pp. 145–81.
part iii
Approaches and Readings
chapter 34
Narratology
Luc Herman
Notes
1. Tzvetan Todorov, Grammaire du Décameron (The Hague: Mouton, 1969).
2. Gérard Genette, Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method, trans. Jane E. Lewin
(Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1980).
3. David Herman, “Introduction: Narratologies,” in David Herman (ed.),
Narratologies: New Perspectives on Narrative Analysis (Columbus, OH: Ohio
State University Press, 1999), pp. 1–30; Jan Christoph Meister, “Narratology,”
in Peter Hühn, Jan Christoph Meister, John Pier, and Wolf Schmid (eds.),
Handbook of Narratology, Volume 2 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014), pp. 623–45,
p. 624.
4. Samuli Hägg, Narratologies of Gravity’s Rainbow (Joensuu: University of
Joensuu, 2005), p. 11.
5. David Herman, “Hypothetical Focalization,” Narrative, 2.3 (October 1994),
230–53.
6. Hägg, Narratologies, p. 137.
7. Hägg, Narratologies, p. 140.
8. Leo Spitzer, “Sprachmengung als Stilmittel und als Ausdruck der
Klangphantasie,” in Spitzer, Stilstudien II (1922; Darmstadt:
Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1961), pp. 84–124; Hugh Kenner, Joyce’s
Voices (Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press,
1979), pp. 15–38.
9. Hägg, Narratologies, p. 12.
10. See, for instance, Molly Hite, “‘Fun Actually Was Becoming Quite
Subversive’: Herbert Marcuse, the Yippies, and the Value System of
Gravity’s Rainbow,” Contemporary Literature 51 (2010), 677–702.
In Gravity’s Rainbow, Domination, and Freedom (Athens, GA: University
of Georgia Press, 2013), Luc Herman and Steven Weisenburger dispute the
possibility of subversion for Pynchon’s novel.
280 luc herman
11. Brian McHale, “‘You Used to Know What These Words Mean’: Misreading
Gravity’s Rainbow” [1985], in McHale, Constructing Postmodernism (London
and New York: Routledge, 1992), pp. 87–114, p. 89.
12. This technical term for the addressee of a story was coined in Gerald Prince,
“Notes Toward a Characterization of Fictional Narratees,” Genre 4.1 (1971),
100–05.
13. McHale, “You,” p. 94.
14. McHale, “You,” p. 97.
15. McHale, “You,” p. 99.
16. McHale, “You,” pp. 105–06.
17. McHale, “You,” pp. 111–12.
18. Steven Weisenburger, “Hyper-Embedded Narration in Gravity’s Rainbow,”
Pynchon Notes, 34–35 (1994), 70–87, p. 71.
19. Marie-Laure Ryan, “Stacks, Frames, and Boundaries: Or, Narrative as
Computer Language,” Poetics Today 11.4 (1990), 873–99.
20. Weisenburger, “Hyper-Embedded Narration,” 79.
21. Weisenburger, “Hyper-Embedded Narration,” 83.
22. Weisenburger, “Hyper-Embedded Narration,” 84.
23. Weisenburger, “Hyper-Embedded Narration,” 83.
24. Richard Hardack, “Consciousness Without Borders: Narratology in Against
the Day and the Works of Thomas Pynchon,” Criticism 52.1 (2010), 91–128.
25. Hardack, “Consciousness,” 94.
26. Hardack, “Consciousness,” 97.
27. Hardack, “Consciousness,” 99. On Brown, see Lawrence Wolfley,
“Repression’s Rainbow: The Presence of Norman O. Brown in Pynchon’s
Big Novel,” PMLA 92.5 (1977), 873–89.
28. Hardack, “Consciousness,” 113.
29. See, for example, Luc Herman and Bart Vervaeck, Handbook of Narrative
Analysis (Lincoln, NE: University of Nebraska Press, 2005, second ed.,
2019).
chapter 35
Genre
Zofia Kolbuszewska
Notes
1. Alec McHoul and David Wills, Writing Pynchon (Urbana, IL: University of
Chicago Press, 1990), p. 133.
2. Gary K. Wolfe, Evaporating Genres: Essays on Fantastic Literature (Middletown,
CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2011), p. 2; Frank Palmeri, “History of
Narrative Genres after Foucault,” Configurations 7.2 (1999), 275.
Genre 287
3. Mary Gerhart, “The Dilemma of the Text: How to ‘Belong’ to a Genre,”
Poetics, 18 (1989), 367, 371.
4. William W. Stowe, “From Semiotics to Hermeneutics: Modes of Detection
in Doyle and Chandler,” in Glenn W. Most and William W. Stowe (eds.),
The Poetics of Murder: Detective Fiction and Literary Theory (San Diego, CA:
Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1983), p. 366; Martin Paul Eve, Pynchon and
Philosophy: Wittgenstein, Foucault and Adorno (Houndmills: Palgrave
Macmillan, 2014), pp. 17–71.
5. Emily Apter, “On Oneworldedness: Or Paranoia as a World System,” American
Literary History, 18.2 (2006), 366; Simon Malpas and Andrew Taylor, Thomas
Pynchon (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2013), p. 4.
6. Malpas and Taylor, Pynchon, p. 5.
7. Malpas and Taylor, Pynchon, p. 2.
8. Deborah Madsen, “Pynchon’s Quest Narratives and the Tradition of
American Romance,” in Thomas H. Schaub (ed.), Approaches to Teaching
Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49 and Other Works (New York: Modern
Language Association, 2008), p. 29, quoted in Malpas and Taylor, Thomas
Pynchon, p. 3; John Berger, After the End: Representations of Post-Apocalypse
(Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1999), p. xi.
9. Berger, Representations, p. xii.
10. Berger, Representations, p. xii.
11. Madsen, “Pynchon’s Quest Narratives,” p. 29.
12. Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature, trans. Dana
Polan (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), pp. 16–27;
Monika Kaup, “‘The Future Is Entirely Fabulous’: The Baroque Genealogy of
Latin America’s Modernity,” Modern Language Quarterly, 68.2 (2007), 234.
13. Deleuze and Guattari, Kafka, pp. 17–18.
14. William Egginton, “The Corporeal Image and the New World Baroque,”
South Atlantic Quarterly, 106.1 (2007), 114.
15. Brian McHale, “Genre as History: Pynchon’s Genre-Poaching,” in
Jeffrey Severs and Christopher Leise (eds.), Pynchon’s Against the Day:
A Corrupted Pilgrim’s Guide (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press,
2011), pp. 18, 24.
16. McHale, “Genre,” p. 20.
17. McHale, “Genre,” p. 27.
18. John Dugdale, Thomas Pynchon: Allusive Parables of Power (New York:
St. Martin’s Press, 1990), pp. 1–15.
19. McHale, “Genre,” pp. 19–20.
20. McHale, “Genre,” p. 25.
21. McHale, “Genre,” pp. 21–22.
22. McHale, “Genre,” p. 22.
23. McHale, “Genre,” p. 22.
24. Jola Feix, “Reading Against the Day with the Chums of Chance,” paper,
International Pynchon Week Lublin 2010 conference, Maria Curie
Sklodowska University, June 9–12, 2010.
288 zofia kolbuszewska
25. Sascha Pöhlmann, “Pynchon’s Games,” in Zofia Kolbuszewska (ed.), Thomas
Pynchon and the (De)vices of Global (Post)modernity (Lublin: Wydawnictwo
KUL, 2012), pp. 263–64.
26. McHale, “Genre,” p. 23.
27. McHale, “Genre,” p. 23.
28. McHale, “Genre,” p. 23.
29. McHale, “Genre,” p. 25.
30. McHale, “Genre,” p. 25.
31. Linda Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction
(New York: Routledge, 1988), p. 5.
32. Hutcheon, Poetics, p. 19.
33. Theodore D. Kharpertian, A Hand to Turn the Time: The Menippean Satires of
Thomas Pynchon (Rutherford, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press,
1990).
34. David Musgrave, Grotesque Anatomies: Menippean Satire Since the Renaissance
(Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2014), pp. viii, 1.
35. Edward Mendelson, “Gravity’s Encyclopedia,” in George Levine and
David Leverenz (eds.), Mindful Pleasures: Essays on Thomas Pynchon
(Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1976), pp. 161–95.
36. Horst Bredekamp, The Lure of Antiquity and the Cult of the Machine:
The Kunstkammer and the Evolution of Nature, Art and Technology, trans.
Allison Brown (Princeton, NJ: Markus Wiener, 1995), p. 78.
37. Frances Yates, The Art of Memory (London: Ark, 1984), pp. 298, 377.
38. David L. Martin, Curious Visions of Modernity: Enchantment, Magic, and the
Sacred (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2011).
chapter 36
Postmodernism
Brian McHale
When Thomas Pynchon published his first novels in the early- and mid-
1960s, nobody called them postmodern, for the very good reason that the
term barely existed at that time. If anyone felt the need to categorize them,
perfectly suitable categories were available: V. (1963) and The Crying of Lot
49 (1966) were satires, or perhaps examples of black humor. By the mid-
1980s, Pynchon had been canonized as the very model of a postmodernist,
and Gravity’s Rainbow (1973) in particular, his third book, as the definitive
postmodern novel. In the interim, the term had gradually made inroads in
literary circles, and then in the mid-1970s had leapt to architectural theory
and criticism, which disseminated it far and wide, until it seemed that
everything in the sphere of culture, high and low, could be called “post-
modern.” By the early 1990s, writers and academics were beginning to
declare postmodernism dead – prematurely, as it turned out. By the 2010s,
however, it had receded to background noise. “Postmodern” had become
the sort of term that Pynchon himself, in Bleeding Edge (2013), could apply
to slightly dated styles of architecture and design, and expect to be
understood.1
Postmodernism, in other words, is an historical phenomenon: It arises at
a particular historical moment impelled by particular circumstances,
thrives under particular historical conditions, and subsides when those
conditions change. Recently, millennial-generation critics have begun to
advocate that Pynchon be disentangled from the historical nexus of post-
modernism. “We may have to stop calling Thomas Pynchon a postmodern
writer,” says Sascha Pöhlmann (twice, for emphasis).2 Critics like
Pöhlmann argue that newer, fresher topics of critical interest – such as
sexuality and gender, ecology and the world of objects, spirituality, and
ethics (all reflected in other entries in this volume) – ought to take
precedence over the somewhat threadbare theme of Pynchon’s relation to
the postmodern. While they have a point, it is also important to retain
a sense of the historicity of Pynchon’s novels: They really do belong to the
289
290 brian mchale
era of postmodernism, and in fact helped to define that era and its poetics.
If there had been no novels like Gravity’s Rainbow, perhaps there would
have been no pressing need to develop a model of literary postmodernism
at all: “Postmodern” might have remained the name of an architectural
style, or a style of dance. Likewise, if there had been no sense of post-
modernism as an historical moment and a shared set of practices, it would
have been much harder to “place” Pynchon. Pynchon and postmodernism
were literally made for each other, for better or worse.
Features of Postmodernism
The conditions that gave rise to postmodernism include, on the one hand,
the post–World War II situation of nuclear standoff, rampant technologi-
cal transformation and creeping corporatism in the developed West that
Pynchon himself documents in Gravity’s Rainbow, and, on the other hand,
the perceived exhaustion of modernist-era practices in literature and the
arts.3 While postmodern culture certainly overlaps with the Cold War era
(1947–91), and is in some sense a phenomenon of Cold War culture, it
coincides more exactly with what Fredric Jameson famously called late
capitalism, the era we are now more likely to identify with the rise of
a neoliberal international economic order, beginning in the 1970s.4
What, then, was postmodernism? Like other period concepts, it has
been characterized in a variety of ways, and sometimes contradictorily; but
among the features that have been most durably and productively asso-
ciated with it are the following:
Gravity’s Rainbow
If Gravity’s Rainbow is widely regarded as the definitive postmodern
novel, this is because all of the features I have just identified – and
others that I could have identified (the list is not exhaustive) – are fully
realized here:
Incredulity: Gravity’s Rainbow is a test-case of postmodern incredulity,
relentlessly questioning, exposing, and undermining cultural narratives
about scientific knowledge and technological progress, about the nation
and the people, about liberalism and democracy. A postmodern sceptic,
Pynchon appears to place his faith only in the local narratives that sustain
small-scale separatist cultural enclaves, such as those that proliferate in the
Zone, a space of freedom, multiplicity, indeterminacy, and social impro-
visation that, according to Gravity’s Rainbow’s version of history, flour-
ished in Germany between the Third Reich’s collapse and the
consolidation of the Allied Occupation.
Irony: the elusive narrator of Gravity’s Rainbow is a chameleon and
ventriloquist, with a whole repertoire of voices at his command. One of
them is that of a postmodern ironist, a sort of wised-up hepcat, knowing
and snarky. Often this voice appears in direct address to someone, some-
times one of the characters – “No, Klaus, don’t drift away, please” (GR
518) – sometimes the reader: “Check out Ishmael Reed. He knows more
about it than you’ll ever find here” (GR 588); “You will want cause and
effect. All right” (GR 663).
Double-coding: difficult, demanding and given to flights of lyricism
though it is, Gravity’s Rainbow also seems to cater shamelessly to our taste
for “low” entertainment, offering all kinds of “mindless pleasures” (Pynchon’s
preferred title for the book): silly names and obnoxious puns, flagrant ana-
chronism, cartoonish characters, coarse slapstick, chase-scenes, pornography,
Postmodernism 293
pop-song lyrics, and musical-comedy song-and-dance numbers. All the
barriers between high and mass or popular culture seem to have broken
down.
Simulation: Hollywood-movie simulacra literally preempt the reality
of Gravity’s Rainbow, not just locally, in scenes modeled on war movies,
musical comedies, Hollywood romances, horror movies and animated
cartoons (not to mention superhero comics and radio shows), but also
globally, when the entire storyworld is revealed retrospectively to have been
a movie being screened in a doomed movie theater.
Decentering: Tyrone Slothrop undergoes a literal decentering when,
“sent into the Zone to be present at his own assembly—perhaps, heavily
paranoid voices have whispered, his time’s assembly,” he ends up “being
broken down instead, and scattered” (GR 738). Notoriously, by the time
we reach the novel’s final, radically disjointed, and centrifugal episodes, it
is “doubtful if [Slothrop] can ever be ‘found’ again, in the conventional
sense of ‘positively identified and detained’” (GR 712). If decentered
subjectivity is the postmodern condition, then Slothrop is its poster-
child.
The spatial turn: Gravity’s Rainbow is replete with spatial motifs and
innovations, attesting to the spatial turn of postmodernism. Two of its
most characteristic spaces might be called the rhizomatic network and the
heterotopian zone. The former corresponds to Pynchon’s theme of paranoia
(“the discovery that everything is connected [. . .] not yet blindingly One, but
at least connected” (GR 703)), the latter to its opposite, anti-paranoia,
“where nothing is connected to anything, a condition not many of us can
bear for long” (GR 434). An example of rhizomatic space is the War itself,
for instance as it is mapped in the Advent Vespers episode (GR 127–36),
where an evening of seasonal song in a church “Somewhere in Kent” (GR
127) is shown to be intricately networked into the very fabric of the War.
Conversely, one of Pynchon’s great imaginative inventions – “the Zone”
(GR 279) – is an unmappable, ephemeral space of multiplicity and possi-
bility in which various kinds of short-lived enclaves and pocket utopias pop
up: the Scharzkommando in their underground warrens; villages of chas-
sids, of homosexuals newly liberated from labor-camps, of runaway army
dogs; a village of displaced Argentine dissidents, simultaneously settlement
and movie-set; the Anubis, a “ship of all nations” (GR 469), microcosm of
the Zone itself; even the hallucinatory Rocket-City. Moreover, the world
of Gravity’s Rainbow is rife with secret histories and paranoid conspiracy
theories, making it, in Jameson’s terms, yet another “degraded attempt” at
cognitive mapping of the postmodern world.19
294 brian mchale
Ontology: Gravity’s Rainbow is something like a one-stop-shop for
techniques and devices designed to foreground and explore issues of
ontology: techniques for pluralizing worlds, for multiplying levels of
reality, for suspending reality between literal and figurative states, for
unmasking the very process of bringing worlds into being.
The storyworld of Gravity’s Rainbow is riddled with secondary worlds
and subworlds: little enclaves of alternative reality: so many of them that
in the end they fatally weaken and overwhelm the novel’s “main” world.
We slip in and out of movies and staged performances; indeed, as we have
already seen, the whole storyworld seems to collapse into a war movie on its
last page. We fall into characters’ hallucinations and fantasies, often with-
out knowing that we have done so until much later; we mistake subjective
realities for the outside world. Otherworldly visitations abound, historical
figures make cameo appearances, and history bleeds into fiction (and vice
versa). Paradoxes, confusion of narrative levels, and trompe l’oeil effects
impede our efforts to reconstruct a stable storyworld. Entire episodes are
placed under erasure. For instance, the troubled German rocket-engineer
Franz Pökler has a sexual encounter with a girl who may or may not be his
daughter, and then defects with her to Denmark; however, he also does not
do any such thing, but instead resists temptation and carries on with the
charade (if it is a charade) of fatherhood.
Notes
1. Simon DeBourcier, “Reading McHale Reading Pynchon, or, Is Pynchon Still
a Postmodernist?” Orbit 2.2 (2014), 10, orbit.openlibhums.org/article/doi/10
.7766/orbit.v2.2.68/.
2. Sascha Pöhlmann, “Introduction: The Complex Text,” in Sascha Pöhlmann
(ed.), Against the Grain: Reading Pynchon’s Counternarratives (Amsterdam:
Rodopi, 2010), pp. 9, 33. See also Ali Chetwynd, “Review of Inger
H. Dalsgaard, Luc Herman, and Brian McHale (eds.), The Cambridge
Companion to Thomas Pynchon,”College Literature, 39.4 (2012), 142–45.
3. See John Barth, “The Literature of Exhaustion,” in Barth, The Friday Book:
Essays and Other Nonfiction (New York: Putnam, 1984), pp. 62–76.
4. Fredric Jameson Postmodernism; or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism
(Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1991); David Harvey, A Brief History
of Neoliberalism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005).
Postmodernism 297
5. Jean-François Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge,
trans. Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi (Minneapolis, MN: University
of Minnesota Press, 1984).
6. David Foster Wallace, “E Unibus Pluram,” in Wallace, A Supposedly Fun
Thing I’ll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments (Boston: Little, Brown and
Company, 1997), pp. 21–82.
7. Max Apple, “Post-Modernism,” in Apple, Free Agents (New York: Harper &
Row, 1984), p. 137.
8. Alan Wilde, Horizons of Assent: Modernism, Postmodernism, and the Ironic
Imagination (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1981), p. 10.
9. Andreas Huyssen, After the Great Divide: Modernism, Mass Culture,
Postmodernism (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1986).
10. Charles Jencks, What Is Post-Modernism? (London: Academy Editions/
New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1986).
11. Jean Baudrillard, Simulacres et simulations (Paris: Galilee, 1981); Daniel
J. Boorstin, The Image: A Guide to Pseudo-Events in America (1961;
New York: Atheneum, 1985).
12. Guy DeBord, The Society of the Spectacle [1967], trans. Donald Nicholson-
Smith (New York: Zone Books, 1995).
13. Jameson, Postmodernism, pp. 25–31.
14. Donna Haraway, “A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-
Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century,” in Haraway, Simians, Cyborgs, and
Women: The Reinvention of Nature (New York: Routledge, 1991).
15. Jameson, Postmodernism, pp. 154–80.
16. Jameson, Postmodernism, pp. 37–38.
17. Jameson, Postmodernism, pp. 51–54.
18. Brian McHale, Postmodernist Fiction (London: Methuen, 1987);
Nelson Goodman, Ways of World-Making (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 1978).
19. Jameson, Postmodernism, p. 38.
20. See Pöhlmann, “Introduction,” pp. 16–24.
21. Brian McHale, “Genre as History: Pynchon’s Genre-Poaching,” in
Jeffrey Severs and Christopher Weise (eds.), Pynchon’s Against the Day:
A Corrupted Pilgrims’ Guide (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press,
2011), pp. 15–28.
22. Brian McHale, “Mason & Dixon in the Zone, or, A Brief Poetics of Pynchon-
Space,” in Brooke Horvath and Irving Malin (eds.), Pynchon and Mason &
Dixon (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press, 2000), pp. 43–62.
23. Brian McHale, The Cambridge Introduction to Postmodernism (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 128–34.
chapter 37
Ambiguity
Deborah L. Madsen
Ambiguities
Within this governing tension or ambiguity there proliferate myriad
unresolved oppositions that are themselves rendered ambivalent rather
than clear: for example, between total meaning and semantic void, chaos
and order, chance and design, sacred and profane, temporality and
298
Ambiguity 299
transcendence, alienation and integration, determinism and freedom,
entropic and efficient communication, suspicion and belief, rationality
and intuition, explanation and description, Newtonian and quantum
physics. The irreducibility of the oppositions that characterize Pynchon’s
fictional worlds is described by Oedipa toward the end of The Crying of Lot
49 (1966):
She had heard all about excluded middles; they were bad shit, to be avoided;
and how had it ever happened here, with the chances once so good for
diversity? For it was now like walking among matrices of a great digital
computer, the zeroes and ones twinned above, hanging like balanced
mobiles right and left, ahead, thick, maybe endless. (CL 181)
While Oedipa can only liken her experience to walking in a digital envir-
onment, the protagonist of Bleeding Edge (2013), Maxine, actually enters
the digital space of “DeepArcher” and moves among the artifacts of the
“zeroes and ones” that constitute the Deep Web. Trying one of Vip
Everdew’s phone numbers, Maxine is answered by an “incompletely robot-
ized” voice and, the narrator remarks, “[a] paranoid halo thickens around
Maxine’s head, if not a nimbus of certainty” (BE 183). This motif reappears
when, logged on to DeepArcher, Maxine reaches “a strange creepy nimbus
like a follow spot” (BE 355) and clicks on the pixels of light to receive
directions that lead her to Lucas. Rather than clarifying the opposition
between doubt and certainty, this encounter simply adds to her quest
Lucas’ own search for “a horizon between coded and codeless” (BE 357).
Like Oedipa, Maxine fails to find there an unambiguous singular meaning.
Interpretive Ambiguity
These protagonists are confronted with the need to interpret
a symbolic landscape that refuses to reveal a unified meaning. In an
earlier moment of narrative self-consciousness that borders on metafic-
tion, Maxine listens to March Kelleher’s commencement speech to
eighth-grade students at Kugelblitz School, which includes what the
narrator describes as a “parable nobody is supposed to get” (BE 112).
March explains that in Stalin’s time everyone understood the hidden
meaning of stories like hers, like Aesop’s fables – “everybody knew
what stood for what” – and she asks “can we in the 21st-century
U.S. say the same?” (BE 114). Her story invites the external reader to
use it as a parable, by bringing the narrative of Maxine’s investigation
into thematic relation with March’s secretive corrupt ruler and the old
300 deborah l. madsen
woman whose collection of garbage functions as a form of collective
memory. But March’s story also warns the reader of the frustration that
meets the effort to transform stories into parables. Here and in all of
Pynchon’s fictional worlds, the refusal of binary oppositions to fall into
a linear pattern of one-to-one correspondences that yield unified mean-
ings is the underlying principle that generates the ambiguities that
pervade narrative form and content. Building on the work of Schaub
(who does not use the term) and Maureen Quilligan (who does), and
perhaps even validated by March Kelleher’s “meta-parable,” I have long
held that the structural and thematic ambiguities of Pynchon’s project
can be explained in terms of the workings of narrative allegory.4
As an historic literary genre, allegory is both a substantive inquiry
into the theory and practice of interpretation and a narrative perfor-
mance of interpretation. Interpretation is both the dominant theme
and the structuring principle of allegorical texts, the storyworlds of
which are highly symbolic environments that demand to be read (by
internal and external readers alike) for covert patterns of meanings that
might be spiritual, moral, ethical, social, or political. Allegorical lan-
guage functions as a sacramental means of making visible covert
realities that cannot be known through literal reading practices.
Protagonists from Herbert Stencil in V. (1963), Oedipa in The Crying
of Lot 49, and Tyrone Slothrop in Gravity’s Rainbow (1973) through to
Maxine in Bleeding Edge try to read their diegetic surroundings in
terms of patterns of connection to transcendent meanings that offer
the potential to reveal a mystical unity. But these signs are multiply
interpreted and overburdened with meaning that can be neither
abstracted nor reduced to the condition of epiphany. As Schaub argues
in relation to Lot 49, meaning is metaphoric, “existing in the middle
between inside and outside, between a reductive literalism in which
words are mere tools standing for things, and a speculative symbolism
in which words are signs capable of pointing toward realities which
transcend those signs.”5
More generally, poststructuralist theories of allegory identify this literary
style with the incommensurability of language and the extralinguistic such
as thought or spirit. The rhetorical failure to make present pre- or extra-
discursive dimensions of experience, a failure that language works to
conceal, is exposed in both the practice and content of allegorical modes
of expression. In Pynchon’s story “Entropy” (1960), Saul’s violent objec-
tion to Meatball Mulligan’s use of the phrase “language barrier” is con-
sistent with this allegorical theory of language:
Ambiguity 301
No, ace, it is not a barrier. If it is anything it’s a kind of leakage. Tell a girl:
‘I love you.’ No trouble with two-thirds of that, it’s a closed circuit. Just you
and she. But that nasty four-letter word in the middle, that’s the one you
have to look out for. Ambiguity. Redundance. Irrelevance, even. Leakage.
All this is noise. Noise screws up your signal, makes for disorganization in
the circuit. (SL 90–91)
As soon as words attempt to embody emotion, in Saul’s example, the
representational limits of human communication produce ambiguity. Or,
to return to March Kelleher’s parable in Bleeding Edge: When it is no
longer the case that everybody knows “what stood for what” (BE 114) –
because symbols refuse to cohere into unified patterns of meaning even
though residual hints of such transcendent meaning remain – we then have
allegory in the sense most fully theorized by Paul de Man.6 When thought
enters language, it ceases to be pure consciousness and becomes subject to
the constraints of grammar: something that actively works against the
communication of transcendent meaning. In this perspective, allegory is
fundamentally characteristic of all language, which is found most explicitly
in literary texts that dramatize the reading process: the interpretive activity
of transforming symbols into concepts, which allegory does not attempt to
conceal. The performance of the fundamental inability of language to
generate anything except ambiguity requires, then, that every strategy
employed by an allegorical narrative engages with the work of rhetorical
demystification. This is a paradoxical process, where language divests itself
of the pretense of signifying through clear linear correspondences (“every-
body knew what stood for what”) and instead pursues the indeterminate
conditions of meaning that produce semantic ambiguity.
Generic Ambiguity
Given the complex interrelations between poststructuralist theorizing
about language and literary theorizing about postmodernism, it is perhaps
not surprising that Pynchon’s allegorical ambiguities comprise many of the
characteristics highlighted as indicators of his postmodernist style: for
example, the self-conscious foregrounding of narrative, the self-reflexive
concern with issues of reading and textuality, the infinite deferral of
meaning, and resistance to the production of totalized systems of
knowledge.7 The question of Pynchon’s generic style can be framed in
terms of postmodernist aesthetics and other compatible generic descriptors
such as “historiographic metafiction” (Hutcheon), “encyclopedic narra-
tive” (Mendelson), or “Menippean satire” (Kharpertian).8 Working against
302 deborah l. madsen
the assumption of Pynchon’s postmodernism are efforts to place his work
within the specific literary tradition of the American Renaissance and its
Puritan legacies, with its preference for romance narrative rather than
novelistic realism.9 Schaub’s comparison between Gravity’s Rainbow and
Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick (1851) highlights a shared skepticism toward
the reading of correspondences between “material signs and spiritual
facts,” and a shared concern with the processes by which meanings are
generated from symbols like the whale or the rocket.10 Indeed, the
American romance genre accounts for not only the metafictional and
historical, encyclopedic and satiric elements of Pynchon’s style but also
his ambiguity. The quest structure of the romance plot is based on a series
of encounters that demand of the protagonist an interpretive effort and
thus brings into the narrative action, as well as the narration itself, cumu-
lative symbolic meanings, so narrative structure performs the creation of
meaning that is the thematic subject. These meanings tend toward moral
and ethical rather than sociocultural truths, explored through highly
stylized possible rather than probable romance worlds in which, as
Nathaniel Hawthorne famously described, “the actual and the imaginary
meet.”11
Characterological Ambiguity
The characters of romance quest narratives fail to conform to
E. M. Forster’s famous distinction between “round” or “flat” characteriza-
tion, tending to serve the narrative’s interest in moral and ethical rather
than social issues. The naming of Pynchon’s characters transgresses con-
ventions of novelistic realism, gesturing toward the tradition of allegorical
personification at the expense of the realistic novel’s complex individuali-
zation of characters. Symbolically resonant names like Stencil and Profane
(V.), Oedipa (Lot 49), Slothrop and Pointsman (Gravity’s Rainbow), Lew
Basnight and Webb Traverse (Against the Day [2006]), parodic names like
Ruperta Chirpingden-Groin (Against the Day) and Conkling Speedwell
(Bleeding Edge), or the names of what Duyfhuizen calls “unambiguous
villains” like Blicero, Scarsdale Vibe, Brock Vond, or Gabriel Ice all suggest
elements of individual characterization that are ultimately tautological.
The name may highlight an aspect of character; character may illuminate
the significance of the name, but any further meaning remains elusive.
Duyfhuizen explains that “the individual character villains are usually
metonymies for large institutional villains” so morality is not simply
located in “specific characters or entities.”12 Rather, Pynchon’s characters
Ambiguity 303
articulate, and are attributed value, as artifacts of larger discursive systems
of control and power; they are not modeled after the individualized selves
of liberal humanism but express powerful external cultural interests
mediated through popular, corporate, and state discourses. In this respect,
Pynchon’s techniques of characterization draw upon allegorical strategies
to expose the hermeneutic gap between characters’ experience in the
narrative action and recognizable cultural codes that might give those
experiences unambiguous meaning.
The ambiguity that attaches to Pynchon’s protagonists arises in two
primary ways. Foremost, and as evinced by their occupations, these
characters are readers: Herbert Stencil as an explorer-spy; Oedipa as
executrix and interpreter of Inverarity’s estate; Frenesi Gates (in
Vineland [1990]) as a filmmaker and federal informer; Mason and
Dixon (in Mason & Dixon [1997]) as surveyors and thus readers of
landscape; the detectives Lew Basnight in Against the Day and Doc
Sportello in Inherent Vice (2009); Maxine as a fraud investigator in
Bleeding Edge. But while these characters are compelled to interpret
they are also engaged in reading their own part in the interpretive work
they perform (Oedipa’s self-questioning is perhaps the most explicit
instance of this). Thus, the characters are engaged in reading both
themselves and their diegetic worlds in a manner that establishes
a relation of homology between protagonist (especially when that char-
acter is the narrative focalizer) and the external reader.
Notes
1. Thomas H. Schaub, Pynchon: The Voice of Ambiguity (Urbana, IL: University
of Illinois Press, 1981), p. 103.
2. Schaub, Pynchon, pp. 3–4, 10.
3. Schaub, Pynchon, pp. 126, 8.
4. Schaub, Pynchon; Maureen Quilligan, The Language of Allegory (Ithaca, NY:
Cornell University Press, 1979); Deborah L. Madsen, The Postmodernist
Allegories of Thomas Pynchon (London and Leicester: Leicester University
Press, 1989).
5. Schaub, Pynchon, p. 38.
6. Paul de Man, “The Rhetoric of Temporality,” in de Man, Blindness and
Insight: Essays in the Rhetoric of Contemporary Criticism, 2nd ed. (London:
Routledge, 1983), pp. 187–228.
7. See Brian McHale, “Pynchon’s Postmodernism,” in Inger H. Dalsgaard,
Luc Herman, and Brian McHale (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to
Thomas Pynchon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), pp. 97–111.
8. Linda Hutcheon, A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction
(New York: Routledge, 1988); Edward Mendelson, “Gravity’s Encyclopedia,”
in George Levine and David Leverenz (eds.), Mindful Pleasures: Essays on
Thomas Pynchon (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1976), pp. 161–95;
Theodore D. Kharpertian, A Hand to Turn the Time: The Menippean Satires
of Thomas Pynchon (Rutherford, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press,
1990).
9. See Scott Sanders, “Pynchon’s Paranoid History,” in Levine and Leverenz
(eds.), Mindful Pleasures, pp. 139–59; John M. Krafft, “‘And How Far-Fallen’:
Puritan Themes in Gravity’s Rainbow,” Critique, 18.3 (1977), 55–73;
Marcus Smith and Khachig Tololyan, “The New Jeremiad: Gravity’s
Rainbow,” in Richard Pearce (ed.), Critical Essays on Thomas Pynchon
(Boston: G. K. Hall, 1981), pp. 169–86.
10. Schaub, Pynchon, p. 118.
11. Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Centenary Edition of the Works of Nathaniel
Hawthorne, Vol 2: The House of the Seven Gables, Hyatt Howe Waggoner
(ed.) (1851; Columbus, OH: Ohio State University Press, 1964), pp. 3–5.
306 deborah l. madsen
12. Bernard Duyfhuizen, “‘God Knows, Few of Us Are Strangers to Moral
Ambiguity’: Thomas Pynchon’s Inherent Vice,” Postmodern Culture, 19.2
(2009), muse.jhu.edu/article/366239.
13. See Rudolf Arnheim, Entropy and Art: An Essay on Order and Disorder
(Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1971).
14. C. Namwali Serpell, Seven Modes of Uncertainty (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 2014), p. 53.
chapter 38
Realities
Kathryn Hume
As readers approaching a Thomas Pynchon novel for the first time, we have
to face his determination to undermine our sense of reality, or destabilize
our ontology, as theorists put it.1 No author can have much hope of our
dropping the assumptions we live by simply on a novel’s say-so, but by
constantly shoving a variety of alternative types of reality at us, Pynchon
irritates and confuses us, but also intrigues us and makes us perhaps a bit
less confident of our world picture. We may fear some of his options, but
may come to desire some as well. Sometimes Pynchon’s alternative realities
superimpose themselves on material existence; other times, they are
reached by passing some barrier or going through some portal.2 Whereas
most speculative fiction would treat such portal-transitions with excite-
ment and awareness of the new possibilities, Pynchon’s alternative realities
usually cause little excitement and tend to be accepted as just the way
things are. Most of his characters do not treat new realities as particularly
weird or unbelievable, at least after a few moments. “So you find yourself in
a physically impossible version of Chicago where everything, including
yourself, must be devoted to penance?” – a situation that occurs in Against
the Day (2006): “Well, that’s just how things are for you, so get used to it!”
just about sums up the implicit attitude, both toward the characters and
toward readers.
Pynchon’s early novels became famous for their paranoid version of the
world, but paranoia was never Pynchon’s only way of explaining politics
and culture. His other modes of reality formation include the spiritual
(mystic, religious and utopian, or communitarian) and the slapstick. When
he posits beets large enough for families to live in them, or when
Vaucanson’s mechanical duck comes alive, or when an airship sails beneath
the surface of the Earth through sand where people also walk about entirely
underneath the sand and presumably breathe it, we can only shrug and
relax. We are being taken for a ride, who knows where or why. Flying
through Symmes’ Hole does relate to once-held theories, but the more
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slapstick realities are sui generis and usually link to no philosophy or
intertextual antecedent. They, if anything, are original to Pynchon’s
mind. The paranoid and spiritual realities, however, are easier to discuss
because they do tie in to issues we know outside of Pynchon.
The paranoid systems that Pynchon imposes do their work in two basic
ways.3 One is when he presents us with a system that we have simply not
suspected and about whose existence we may feel doubts. Perhaps
a historian could find political or cultural connections between the
Fashoda Incident and the riots surrounding an avant-garde Paris ballet
(and linked to these are the German slaughter of Africans in South-West
Africa and rats in the sewers of New York), but Pynchon suggests
a connection by positing a female presence presiding over them all. She
has various names beginning with V, and may be one or several women.
She observes and enjoys the violence, rather than causing it. We do not see
a logical connection, but within the novel such a system is considered
possible by some characters, at least. Another such system is the much more
substantial Tristero mail network in The Crying of Lot 49 (1966). Oedipa
Maas finds that interest-groups that are marginalized by society use it for
communicating, and as she investigates it she thinks (but is never quite
sure) that she is discovering a complete underground network of commu-
nication. The system has its men in black, its mysterious past in the
European Thurn und Taxis couriers, and it makes a sinister appearance
in a supposed Renaissance tragedy. Ominously, death or insanity remove
some of the people who might have answered Oedipa’s questions.
The other kind of paranoid network reflects cynicism and despair at
human behavior. Pynchon often appears to assume that if some institution
can be corrupt, it will be. In his vision, any institutional hierarchy is likely
to be venal and vicious. In Gravity’s Rainbow (1973), he disparages the Red
Cross for charging soldiers on the front lines for coffee (GR 600). Even
a charity cannot avoid a hierarchy, and hierarchy demands Control with
a capital C, a dreaded concept in Pynchon’s vocabulary.4 Many evils are
done in order to maintain Control. Slavery in colonial America is one such
unnecessary and now hopelessly ingrained evil explored in Mason & Dixon
(1997). The American governing bodies, particularly as represented in local
police forces, exercise power through sinister networks in Vineland (1990)
and Inherent Vice (2009). The governor of California, an assassin, drug-
dealers, real estate developers, and the Los Angeles Police Department
conveniently remove obstacles for one another, and the right hand is
spared direct knowledge of what the left hand is doing. The connections
among American and German chemical companies during World War II
Realities 309
form another such network in Gravity’s Rainbow. When Americans bomb
a German plant, the rubble is seen as planned and agreed upon (GR 520);
given the way the Marshall Plan rebuilt factories after the war and thus
modernized Germany’s industry, that almost reflects a truth rather than
paranoia, though the rebuilding was probably not envisioned at so specific
a level during the war. The effect at the time is a creepy sense that what we
see on the surface is not the true reality. Paranoia represents a desperate
desire for meaning; linking events in a sinister way seems more desirable
than declaring no connections to exist, no explanations, and no meaning,
a state that Gravity’s Rainbow calls “anti-paranoia” (GR 434).
Pynchon’s allegiance to paranoia varies with his novels. The Crying of Lot
49, Gravity’s Rainbow, and Vineland project paranoia strongly. Tyrone
Slothrop in Gravity’s Rainbow and Zoyd Wheeler in Vineland are quick to
make ominous connections between events, and the events are not later
shown to have innocent explanations. The aura of paranoia slackens until
Against the Day, which seems the least paranoia-inflected of his novels.
Inherent Vice gets back to the corrupt connections among government,
police, and big business, but any such bond feels like a routine assumption
rather than an unexpected and disturbing discovery, and Doc Sportello
achieves many of his insights into these connections through drug-fueled
intuition rather than difficult sleuthing. With Bleeding Edge (2013), how-
ever, Pynchon finds the perfect tools for refreshing and intensifying our
sense of paranoia: the dark web and 9/11. Whereas the Tristero system
eerily projected the Internet’s function for interest-groups long before the
Internet had become public property, Bleeding Edge presents us with
another reality that is virtual but also quite real. It exists underneath our
surface reality in electronic ones and zeros: genuinely there but invisible,
except to those who know how to access and use the dark web. When
combined with video-game kinds of scenery, it is a virtual world. Society
has caught up to Pynchon’s vision of layered realities. We should take heed.
Pynchon has warned us of the implications in Gravity’s Rainbow: “Once
the technical means of control have reached a certain size, a certain degree
of being connected one to another, the chances for freedom are over for
good” (GR 539).
Bleeding Edge advances the paranoid side of this vision of reality, but
a merely paranoid author would become boring and predictable. Pynchon
has never been either. He also explores realities that transcend the material,
that are spiritually exalted, and he tries thought experiments to see how
humans might exist without the corrupting influence of Control.
Examples of such thought experiments include the People’s Republic of
310 kathryn hume
Rock and Roll and the Kunoichi Attentives in Vineland, and both there
and in Against the Day we see the multigenerational Traverse family
functioning as a supportive network for its members. Also in Against
the Day there is an extraordinarily receptive and supportive Bogomil
convent. Inherent Vice predicts cars blinded by fog using inboard compu-
ters and phones to help each other find their way home, and the drivers
meeting annually to celebrate their leaderless, spontaneous organization
for helping one another (IV 368).
Another way of avoiding hierarchy and control is realized in Slothrop’s
black-marketeering; there laws do not protect you, and your word is your
only basis for mutual trust. Pynchon expands and develops that model in
Against the Day in the airship Inconvenience, which wanders where it wishes
(including between worlds) and supports itself by transporting goods and
trading. Pynchon leaves unexamined the necessarily controlling role its
captain will have to play, but in other details makes the enterprise as
democratic as possible. He stresses how the airship functions as
a community, and ends by saying that they are flying toward grace,
a strong claim full of hope.
Grace, of course, comes from Christian vocabulary, but Pynchon does
not limit himself to any one religion. He refers to Native American lands of
the dead (Vineland), Gnosticism (his first three novels and Against
the Day), Tibetan post-mortem existence (Vineland, Against the Day) and
Buddhism more generally (The Crying of Lot 49), Protestant modes of
thought (Mason & Dixon), Catholicism (Against the Day), and Judaism
(Bleeding Edge), to name only the more obvious invocations of transcend-
ing value.5 Higher realities manifest themselves in various ways. Holy
places are one. One of the Christian members of the crew on the
Inconvenience is overwhelmed by a sense of approaching the holy city as
the airship seems to near Shambhala (a central Asian mythical city), but
then the Inconvenience suddenly finds itself translocated to Belgium, and
he comes to sense holiness in any area of the Earth (AD 550-51). The feeling
may be stronger or weaker, but to someone open to the sacred, as any
pilgrim through life should be, it can be found anywhere. In Against
the Day, one of the Traverse brothers sees a holy city, Mexican-style, in
a drug dream, and another brother sees it in a fever vision as located on the
shores of Lake Baikal. “Holy-Center Approaching” is treated as a “Zonal
pastime” in Gravity’s Rainbow (GR 508).
Transcendent power also expresses itself in landscape forms other than
cities. The mound-builders of the Ohio Valley are credited with layering of
natural materials to store telluric power in their mounds (MD 599). Ley
Realities 311
lines figure in Mason & Dixon, a form of telluric power that has traditional
if unproven reality beyond the merely material. Kit Traverse senses
immense power at Shipton’s Arch, also known as Tushuk Tash, the highest
natural arch in the world, though the mind-blowing flash of light and noise
he experiences upon visiting it may be related to the exploding superbolide
of the Tunguska Event in 1908 (AD 770). Flashes of light can blind, as the
singer telling of the Kirghiz Light in Gravity’s Rainbow attests (GR 357–59),
but light and illumination are strongly associated with mystic vision in
Pynchon. When his characters hover on the edge of some insight, they tend
to see some kind of heightened illumination.
Some people transcend in ways that Pynchon treats as literal. Jeremiah
Dixon in Mason & Dixon supposedly used to fly above ley lines in England
(MD 504–05), and in Against the Day Ruperta Chirpingdon-Groin floats
up to the ceiling of Gloucester Cathedral when moved by Ralph Vaughan
Williams’ sacred music (AD 896). Both of these episodes can be rationa-
lized: The surveyors’ maps give viewers the perspective of flying or hover-
ing over the land, and Ruperta evidently went through an out-of-body
psychic experience – those near her saw no such floating woman. Ruperta’s
experience triggers in her a need for repentance, and similarly eerie is Lew
Basnight’s descent into a Chicago devoted to atonement for sins he cannot
recollect committing (AD 38–41). A cluster of zomes (“short for ‘zomahe-
dral domes’”) named “Arrepentimiento” (repentance), built in the desert
in Inherent Vice, apparently offers a portal into another world (IV 62, 253).
The builder evidently repented robbing the poor and despoiling the
California landscape. In that instance, the supposed alternate reality is
reached sideways rather than upward. Landscapes thus permit characters to
move from one form of reality to another, or at least suggest to those
spiritually sensitive that other possible realities are there, if one can only
sense them.
Pynchon appears to desire realities other than the material and
inescapably political world in which we live. Inherent Vice is, in
a way, his worst-case scenario, namely that no higher or other reality
really exists, and we have to live with the mistakes we, personally and
nationally, have made: a prospect that he finds almost unbearable.6 His
anguish never subsides at how America took the wrong fork in the path
several times, but above all on the issues of slavery, contempt for the
preterite, and devastating beautiful landscapes with ugly, shoddy build-
ings and arbitrary lines cut through the wilderness. With Bleeding Edge,
he has gone back to the paranoid explanation; that at least suggests that
some deliberately evil people are responsible for some of the problems
312 kathryn hume
facing us, and these people are the more frightening because they may
just seem like ordinary high-powered businessmen. In that scheme, not
everyone is bad. The bad, though, have power, and in that novel they
exercise it through the dark web, the system in which one can disguise
one’s electronic address, exchange illegal child pornography, carry out
illicit business deals, or work out plans for terrorist attacks. Their
doings take place under the surface of our everyday reality but are
demonstrably real. At least the structure of such secret deals is real,
even if we cannot trace the deals because of address hiding and other
tactics adopted to baffle law enforcement officials. Here in the dark
web, if anywhere, Pynchon has a secondary reality that is not just
wishful or frightened thinking, but is indeed a reality. He has found
a demonstrable secondary reality, one that does not demand our
believing someone else’s faith or drug-visions or paranoia.
For the mass of humans who cannot manipulate the dark web or
who have no say in the military-industrial complex, what are the
options? Pynchon does not give them many ways of fighting against
the villains of other realities.7 Too much is wrong. As he puts it in his
blurb on the jacket of Against the Day, “it is a time of unrestrained
corporate greed, false religiosity, moronic fecklessness, and evil intent in
high places.” All his characters can do is accept that the evils exist and
work around them or try to refuse to cooperate with them. His first
novel, V. (1963), offered the slogan “keep cool but care” (V 366). Or, as
a character in Inherent Vice puts it, “it was luck, dumb luck, that had
put them each where they were, and the best way to pay for any luck,
however temporary, was just to be helpful when you could” (IV 312).
Beyond helping others, you can raise children.8 The Traverse family in
Vineland and Against the Day suggests that supportive families are one
true good in this world. In Inherent Vice, a pregnancy announcement
by a friend is greeted with warm happiness by the protagonist.
The child has nothing to do with him personally, but he welcomes
new life and the mother’s willingness to bring this child into the world.
Bleeding Edge follows a female fraud detective much of whose time is
taken with caring for and watching over her two young sons as they
learn to negotiate living in New York City. Pynchon does not hold out
much hope for the future; we have made too many irreparable, selfish,
and near-sighted mistakes. His belief that bringing a child into this
world is still a good thing, though, may reflect the hope that good
realities exist as well as our damaged social and material world.
Possibly, the individual may still, if lucky, stumble toward grace.
Realities 313
Notes
1. Brian McHale theorized postmodernism as concern with ontology (versus
modernism’s epistemology) in Postmodernist Fictions (New York and
London: Methuen, 1987).
2. For a good discussion of portal-fantasy, see Farah Mendlesohn, Rhetorics of
Fantasy (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2008). A vocabulary for
dealing with Pynchon’s impossibilities is presented in William L. Ashline,
“The Problem of Impossible Fictions,” Style, 29.2 (1995), 215–34.
3. For discussions of paranoia, particularly in Gravity’s Rainbow, see Leo Bersani,
“Pynchon, Paranoia, and Literature,” Representations, 25 (1989), 99–118;
Scott Sanders, “Pynchon’s Paranoid History,” in George Levine and
David Leverenz (eds.), Mindful Pleasures: Essays on Thomas Pynchon (Boston:
Little, Brown and Company, 1976), pp. 139–59.
4. See Luc Herman and Steven Weisenburger, Gravity’s Rainbow, Domination,
and Freedom (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2013).
5. For basic sources on Pynchon’s forays into various religions, see Dwight Eddins,
The Gnostic Pynchon (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1990);
Ron Judy, “The Nacre of History: Thomas Pynchon’s Against the Day as
Gnostic Comedy,” NTU Studies in Language and Literature, 34 (2015), 27–55;
Robert E. Kohn, “Seven Buddhist Themes in Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49,”
Religion and Literature, 35.1 (2003), 73–96; Joseph Dewey, “The Sound of One
Man Mapping: Wicks Cherrycoke and the Eastern (Re)solution,” in
Brooke Horvath and Irving Malin (eds.), Pynchon and Mason & Dixon
(Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press, 2000), pp. 112–31 (for
Protestantism and the insights that go beyond it in Mason & Dixon);
Kathryn Hume, “The Religious and Political Vision of Pynchon’s Against
the Day,” Philological Quarterly, 86.1–2 (2007), 163–87. For Catholicism, and
for the complicated intermixture of spiritualities, see John A. McClure, Partial
Faiths: Postsecular Fiction in the Age of Pynchon and Morrison (Athens, GA:
University of Georgia Press, 2007); and Michael Jarvis, “Very Nice, Indeed:
Cyprian Latewood’s Masochistic Sublime and the Religious Pluralism of Against
the Day,” Orbit 1.2 (2013), www.pynchon.net/articles/10.7766/orbit.v1.2.45/.
6. For dark events that contribute to Pynchon’s grim understanding of history,
see David Cowart, Thomas Pynchon & The Dark Passages of History (Athens,
GA: University of Georgia Press, 2011). For Inherent Vice as worst-case scenario
for Pynchon, see Kathryn Hume, “Attenuated Realities: Pynchon’s Trajectory
from V. to Inherent Vice,” Orbit 2.1 (2013), orbit.openlibhums.org/article/doi/
10.7766/orbit.v2.1.50/.
7. For Pynchon’s views on politics, see Samuel Thomas, Pynchon and the Political
(New York and London: Routledge, 2007); Martin Paul Eve, “Whose Line Is It
Anyway?: Enlightenment, Revolution, and Ipseic Ethics in the Works of
Thomas Pynchon,” Textual Practice, 26.5 (2012), 921–39; and Seán Molloy,
“Escaping the Politics of the Irredeemable Earth – Anarchy and Transcendence
314 kathryn hume
in the Novels of Thomas Pynchon,” Theory & Event, 13.3 (2010), muse.jhu.edu/
article/396496.
8. Tom LeClair notes the central importance of children in Gravity’s Rainbow in
his The Art of Excess: Mastery in Contemporary American Fiction (Urbana:
University of Illinois Press, 1989), especially pp. 57–67.
chapter 39
Material Readings
Tore Rye Andersen
Material Matters
Throughout his career, Pynchon has thus exhibited a consistent interest in
what Gérard Genette calls paratexts: all the textual and material features
that surround the literary text itself (titles, author photos, blurbs, book
descriptions, illustrations, dust jackets, and so on) to enable it “to become
a book and to be offered as such to its readers, and more generally, to the
public.”3 In spite of this by now well-documented interest, Pynchon
criticism has rarely focused on the paratexts or material trappings of his
published work.4 However, these aspects could profitably be taken more
into account when we read Pynchon, not only because the author himself
is concerned with them, but also because they affect our interpretation,
whether we are aware of it or not. Genette underscores this point with
a quote from Philippe Lejeune, who says of paratexts that they constitute “a
315
316 tore rye andersen
fringe of the printed text which in reality controls one’s whole reading of
the text.”5
As the term paratext indicates, Genette is especially concerned with the
textual features of this fringe, but bibliographers, book historians, and
media scholars have demonstrated that the more physical and tangible
aspects of literature play a no less important role in our interpretations.
Book historian D. F. McKenzie argues that the traditional medium for
literature, the book, is not a neutral receptacle but an “expressive form”
whose very materiality has a co-authoring function.6 In other words, books
do not merely contain texts, they incarnate them. Textual scholar Jerome
McGann expresses a similar idea in his call for a “materialist hermeneutics”
that supplements literary criticism’s habitual interest in “linguistic codes”
with an awareness of “bibliographical codes” (typefaces, bindings, physical
formats, and so on).7 Furthermore, N. Katherine Hayles reminds us that
literary analysis that disregards materiality altogether is fundamentally
impossible: “texts must always be embodied to exist in the world,” she
argues, and this embodiment inevitably inflicts a body language on the
texts that interferes with their meaning in ways that are beyond the control
of the author.8 The medium affects the message, and Hayles accordingly
suggests that literary criticism adopt a so-called “media-specific analysis”
that explores “how medium-specific possibilities and constraints shape
texts” and understands literary meaning as an “interplay between form,
content, and medium.”9 With different versions of Gravity’s Rainbow as
my starting point, in this chapter I shall try to demonstrate what can be
gained by a materialist hermeneutics that recognizes that a text is not an
immaterial entity but a very tangible thing whose physicality invariably
guides our reading in various ways.
Later Materializations
Since the publication of the first edition on February 28, 1973, Gravity’s
Rainbow has appeared in numerous editions in both the United States and
abroad, and these many editions not only reflect but also affect the
progressive canonization of the novel. Each actualization of the text in
a new edition reflects how the novel is perceived at a given time, and each
new edition in turn contributes to future readers’ perception of the work.
These continuous feedback processes between the text and its cultural
context help shape the evolving reception of the work, and if we want to
glean information on the literary historical processes that have turned
Gravity’s Rainbow into a classic, much is to be gained by studying different
editions of the novel. George Bornstein argues that “studying texts only in
our contemporary reprintings erases the original historicized meanings,”
and material readings thus equal historical readings.18
The first of many new editions was a pocket-sized Bantam paperback,
published in March 1974 and priced at $2.95. Genette has argued that such
affordable pocket editions are usually intended for a university public of
undergraduates and are thus “synonymous with canonization,” and the in-
your-face paratexts of the Bantam edition (which constitute a marked con-
trast to the restraint of the first edition) do indeed seem to speed up the
canonization of Pynchon’s novel.19 A quote from a reviewer above the title
on the front cover confidently assures us that Gravity’s Rainbow is “the most
important work of fiction yet produced by any living writer,” and on later
reprintings of the paperback this hyperbolic statement is accompanied by an
elaborate seal informing us that the novel is a “Winner of the National Book
Award.”20 In combination with the golden metallic cover these paratexts
emphatically tell us that we have a winner in our hands, and this (perhaps
slightly premature) self-canonization creates certain readerly expectations
that invariably inform our reading experience in one way or another.
Upon opening the golden paperback, we are met with dense printing on
cheap paper. As opposed to the ferociously expensive hardcover, the Bantam
edition is clearly a cheap consumer object with a small profit margin meant
to be moved in large quantities. Apart from the shiny cover, Bantam has cut
costs where they can, and the paperback is riddled with typographical errors.
Furthermore, perhaps as an attempt to save a minuscule amount of printer’s
ink, the seven squares dividing each chapter have been reduced to one, and
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the (erroneous, as it turned out) interpretation of the chapter dividers as
sprocket holes could therefore not have been proposed by readers who only
had access to the stingy get-up of the Bantam edition.21
The insistence of various publishers that Gravity’s Rainbow is a canonical
work has continued unabated since these early editions, and the evolving
Pynchon reception in the intervening decades has of course made the claim
ring increasingly true. The three latest Penguin editions of the novel have
been published in the series Penguin Twentieth Century Classics (1995),
Penguin Great Books of the 20th Century (2000), and Penguin Classics
Deluxe (2006): in combination with the other authors published in them
(for example, Conrad, Joyce, Kafka, and Morrison), the very names of
these series form a context that serves to consolidate the novel’s canonical
status.22 It is worth noting, however, that unlike most other novels in these
series Gravity’s Rainbow has never been published with an accompanying
foreword. Furthermore, in printed form it remains solely available as
a paperback, whereas most other modern literary classics of a similar stature
are readily available in various luxurious hardcover editions.23 The atypical
lack of a foreword suggests that Pynchon still strives to let the radically
open text of his masterpiece meet the public as unadorned as possible, just
as the equally atypical lack of expensive hardcover editions hints that the
egalitarian ideas expressed in his letter to Bruce Allen still hold sway:
Gravity’s Rainbow is not meant to be a lofty monument reserved for the
few wealthy Elect, for Them; it is meant for us, for the preterite masses, to
fondle and not least to read. Now everybody—
Notes
1. Thomas Pynchon, Letter to Bruce Allen, March 25, 1973.
2. Thomas Pynchon, Letter to Faith Sale, October 1, 1962; Neddie Jingo,
“Tibetan Ampersands,” The Chumps of Choice (blog), December 7, 2006,
chumpsofchoice.blogspot.dk/2006/12/tibetan-ampersands.html.
3. Gérard Genette, Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1997), p. 1.
4. Exceptions are John K. Young, “Pynchon in Popular Magazines,” Critique,
44.4 (1993), 389–404; and my own “Distorted Transmissions: Towards
a Material Reading of Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49,” Orbis
Litterarum, 68.2 (2013), 110–42; and “Cherchez la Femme: The Coercive
Paratexts of Thomas Pynchon’s V.” in Paolo Simonetti and Umberto Rossi
(eds.), Dream Tonight of Peacock Tails: Essays on the Fiftieth Anniversary of
Thomas Pynchon’s V. (Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing,
2015), pp. 31–51.
Material Readings 321
5. Genette, Paratexts, p. 2.
6. D. F. McKenzie, Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1999).
7. Jerome McGann, The Textual Condition (Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1991).
8. N. Katherine Hayles, Writing Machines (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2002),
p. 31.
9. Hayles, Writing Machines, p. 31.
10. Genette, Paratexts, pp. 104–13.
11. Many later editions feature the V-2 rocket on the front cover and thus
unequivocally tell us that Gravity’s Rainbow is a novel about rockets.
12. Gerald Howard, “Pynchon From A to V,” Bookforum (Summer 2005), book
forum.com/archive/sum_05/pynchon.html.
13. See Brian McHale, “Genre as History: Pynchon’s Genre Poaching,” in
Jeffrey Severs and Christopher Leise (eds.), Pynchon’s Against the Day:
A Corrupted Pilgrim’s Guide (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press,
2011). Mason & Dixon is set in Bodoni, which was designed in the late
eighteenth century, and with a modification of McHale’s title this practice
may aptly be described as typeface poaching.
14. See e.g. Charles Clerc, “Film in Gravity’s Rainbow,” in Charles Clerc (ed.),
Approaches to Gravity’s Rainbow (Columbus, OH: Ohio State University
Press, 1983), p. 112; and David Cowart, History and the Contemporary Novel
(Carbondale, IL: Southern Illinois University Press, 1989), p. 213.
15. Howard, “Pynchon From A to V,” np.
16. McGann, The Textual Condition, pp. 39–46.
17. John Bryant, The Fluid Text: A Theory of Revision and Editing for Book and
Screen (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2002), p. 9. The question
of intentionality does of course remain a tricky one, and as several critics have
pointed out Pynchon’s overdetermined prose style sometimes causes us to seek
intentions and recognize patterns where there may be none. What are we for
instance to make of the fact that the only italicized words on page 380 of
Gravity’s Rainbow’s 760 pages – exactly midway through the book – are “right
in the middle of it”? Is it merely a random coincidence, or a carefully orche-
strated bibliographical code meant to remind the rapt reader that the story he is
so absorbed in is in reality only ink marks on a bound collection of pages?
18. Quoted in Young, “Pynchon in Popular Magazines,” p. 389.
19. Genette, Paratexts, p. 21. It should be pointed out that canonization can also
take on other material guises. William Gibson’s novel Neuromancer (1984)
was initially published as a humble mass-market paperback, but as a reflection
of its canonization it has since been published in a number of still more
opulent hardcover editions.
20. Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow (New York: Bantam, 1974), front cover.
21. In the latest British Vintage edition, the squares have disappeared completely,
which makes it almost impossible for the reader to distinguish between line
breaks and chapter breaks.
322 tore rye andersen
22. In his theories of the literary field, the French literary sociologist Pierre
Bourdieu likewise argues that the publication of literary works in prestigious
book series forms a sort of consecration that has at least as much impact as e.g.
the value judgments of reviewers. See Pierre Bourdieu, “The Market for
Symbolic Goods,” in his The Rules of Art: Genesis and Structure of the
Literary Field (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1996), pp. 141–72.
23. Gravity’s Rainbow is currently also available as an e-book and an audiobook.
chapter 40
Digital Readings
Joseph Tabbi
The girl’s eyes keep flicking to the screen of her little computer.
Thomas Pynchon, Bleeding Edge
There are indeed literal ghosts in Vineland (such as Weed Atman’s) that are
not so much observed as sensed by Prairie, “by way of her eye and body”
(VL 261). Computer memory as a ghostly realm is more than notional:
The 24fps footage enables Prairie to engage with “a culture’s media storage
capacity and its realm of the dead.”17 In this way, as Johnston observes,
much that is “peripheral” to Vineland’s narrative:
suddenly acquires a different kind of significance: notably, the ghost ima-
gery throughout, as well as explicit mention of the Bardol Thodol or Tibetan
Book of the Dead (218); various Yorok Indian stories recounted or alluded to,
particularly those of the woge, little autochthones who withdrew from the
northwestern landscape when humans appeared; the voices “not chanting
together but remembering, speculating, arguing, telling tales, uttering
curses, singing songs.” (VL 379)18
In Bleeding Edge, similarly, Maxine works her way through digital sites that
have names like DeepArcher (pronounced “departure”) and Darklinear;
they are fitted out – like the Montauk home of multimillionaire Gabriel Ice
Digital Readings 329
and the (not so) safe house of Windust – to have hidden passageways that
enable excursions from conventional dwellings: “desolate corridors,” in
Windust’s Chelsea retreat, “unswept and underlit, that stretch on for
longer than the building’s outside dimensions would suggest” (BE 258).
Elsewhere, Maxine’s time spent with DeepArcher is likened more to
being “out on an expedition. Exploring” (BE 357). Nowhere are such
deviations (and ghostly demarcations) so prevalent as the “Deep Web,”
where Maxine will eventually encounter Windust, post-mortem. She had
already been introduced to the domain by a Silicon Alley friend, Eric
Outfield. It is:
supposed to be mostly obsolete sites and broken links, an endless junkyard.
[. . .] “But it only looks that way,” according to Eric— “behind it is a whole
invisible maze of constraints, engineered in, lets you go some places, keeps
you out of others. This hidden code of behavior you have to learn and obey.
A dump, with structure.” (BE 226)
Notes
1. Friedrich Kittler, Gramophone, Film, Typewriter (Berlin: Brinkman and Bose,
1986), p. xxxix.
2. The term itself was formulated by Professor Lars Ole Sauerberg of the
University of Southern Denmark, Odense. Tom Pettitt, Before the Gutenberg
Parenthesis: Elizabethan-American Compatibilities, web.mit.edu/comm-forum/
legacy/mit5/papers/pettitt_plenary_gutenberg.pdf.
3. N. Katherine Hayles, “Hyper and Deep Attention: The Generational Divide
in Cognitive Modes,” Profession, 13 (2007) 187–99.
4. John Johnston, “Mediality in Vineland and Neuromancer,” in Joseph Tabbi
and Michael Wutz (eds.), Reading Matters: Narrative in the New Media
Ecology (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1997), p. 176.
5. Johnston, “Mediality,” p. 175.
6. William Paulson, Literary Culture in a World Transformed: A Future for the
Humanities (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2001).
7. William Paulson, “The Literary Canon in the Age of its Technological
Obsolescence,” in Tabbi and Wutz (eds.), Reading Matters, pp. 227–49.
8. “The sum total of all innovations produced by the Second World War – from
the reel-to-reel (609), color film, and VHF to radar (452), UHF (378), and
computers – results in a postwar period whose simple secret is the marketing
of Wunderwaffen and whose future is predictable,” Friedrich Kittler, “Media
and Drugs in Pynchon’s Second World War,” in Tabbi and Wutz (eds.),
Reading Matters, p. 158.
9. Kittler, “Media and Drugs,” p. 158.
10. Johnston, “Mediality,” p. 174.
11. Kittler, Gramophone, p. 104; cited in Johnston, “Mediality,” p. 173.
12. Johnston, “Mediality,” p. 175.
13. Joseph Tabbi, Cognitive Fictions (Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota
Press, 2002).
14. For readers willing to range further and more speculatively, there is a plausible
source for Windust’s name in “The Listening Wind” (1980), David Byrne and
Brian Eno’s imagination of the earlier World Trade Center attacks on the
Talking Heads album Remain in Light: “the wind in my heart, the dust in my
head, will drive them away . . .”
15. Steven Weisenburger, A Companion to Gravity’s Rainbow (Athens, GA:
University of Georgia Press, 1988, 2006).
Digital Readings 331
16. Johnston, “Mediality,” p. 176.
17. Johnston, “Mediality,” p. 183.
18. Johnston, “Mediality,” p. 183.
19. These and all scenes referenced are provided with reader commentary at
pynchonwiki.com/.
chapter 41
Internet Resources
Michel Ryckx and Tim Ware
Academic Journals
The idea of a common platform long precedes listservs and usenet discus-
sion fora. Pynchon Notes was first published in 1979 as a modest newsletter
intended to “provide a forum for the exchange of information” on
Pynchon more easily than at special sessions of the Modern Language
Association.7 It grew rapidly into a respected scholarly journal. When it
ceased publication in 2009 the editors, who had already made the first
twenty-three issues available on the journal’s site, graciously donated all 511
published items to the Open Library of the Humanities, along with the
letters to the editors, ongoing primary and secondary bibliography, numer-
ous reviews of criticism, letters, artwork, and news. Read in chronological
order, the journal traces the evolution in literary theory and criticism over
334 michel ryckx and tim ware
recent decades, or it can lead the reader back through the “tradition,”
listing items as early as 1982.8
With Pynchon Notes ceasing publication, four young scholars launched
Orbit. Originally entitled Orbit: Writing around Pynchon, it was subse-
quently renamed Orbit: A Journal of American Literature, and has been
completely open access from the start. This journal is also a member of the
Open Library of the Humanities, based “on the principle that making
research freely available to the public supports a greater global exchange of
knowledge.”9 It is a rolling publication: As soon as an article has been peer-
reviewed and prepared for publication, it appears online. The journal
contains interesting reviews of criticism, rare information on Pynchon’s
publication career, and articles from well-known scholars (those whose
names also appear in collections like this one) and less established or
emerging names.
When institutional funding for Postmodern Culture stopped in 1996, the
editors signed a contract with Project MUSE (Johns Hopkins University
Press) to migrate the formatted content and render it subject to what is
now characterized as “toll access,” in which it is accessible for a fee. Luckily,
the agreement also stated that freely accessible issues – currently volumes 1
(1990) to 19 (2009) – would be published in text-only format.10 Though it
now covers all MUSE content, the less-than-friendly MUSE search engine
does not return articles in text format.11 EBR also regularly publishes
articles about Pynchon, and benefits from an efficient search engine.12
Another open-access journal is Americana: E-Journal of American Studies
in Hungary, which also publishes regularly on Pynchon.13
In addition to the two dedicated Pynchon Journals, Pynchon Notes and
Orbit, and regular reposts of Pynchon articles such as those carried by
Postmodern Culture and EBR, special issues of other kinds of publications
are worth noting. The first conference on Against the Day (2006), orga-
nized by Gilles Chamerois and held in Tours, France, took place in 2007,
and its papers appeared in GRAAT the following year. An issue of the
Oklahoma City University Law Review was devoted to “Thomas Pynchon
and the Law” in the Fall of 1999; this special issue featured some authors
rarely found elsewhere.14
Notes
1. The imagery is taken from E. S. Raymond, The Cathedral and the Bazaar:
Musings on Linux and Open Source by an Accidental Revolutionary, rev. ed.
(Sebastopol, CA: O’Reilly, 2001).
2. Matt Hills, Fan Cultures (London: Routledge, 2002), pp. 20–21; Raymond,
p. 19; Simon Peter Rowberry. “Reassessing the Gravity’s Rainbow Pynchon
Wiki: A New Research Paradigm,” Orbit, 1.1 (2012), orbit.openlibhums.org/
article/doi/10.7766/orbit.v1.1.24/.
3. Martin Paul Eve, Open Access and the Humanities: Contexts, Controversies and
the Future (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), pp. 67–76 www
.cambridge.org/core/books/open-access-and-the-humanities/02BD7DB4
A5172A864C432DBFD86E5FB4.
4. John M. Krafft, quoted in Matt Bucher, “The Spaces in between Pynchon
Fandom,” unpublished ms (2017, copy in editor’s possession).
5. See figures 2 and 3 in Rowberry, “Reassessing”; Jules Siegel and
Christine Wexler, Lineland: Mortality and Mercy on the Internet’s Pynchon-
L@Waste.Org (Philadelphia: Intangible Assets Manufacturing, 1997).
6. Ralph Schroeder and Matthijs den Besten, “Literary Sleuths Online:
e-Research Collaboration on the Pynchon Wiki,” Information,
Communication and Society, 11.2 (March 2008), 167–87, p. 169 papers
.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=1086671.
340 michel ryckx and tim ware
7. John M. Krafft, and Khachig Tölölyan, “Inaugural,” Pynchon Notes:
A Newsletter, 1.1 (October 1979), 1–2, p. 1. See pynchonnotes.openlibhums
.org/articles/.
8. Milestones in the journal’s development include (from 1984) “Deconstructing
Gravity’s Rainbow” (PN 14), which introduces contemporary thought on the
novel; “Schizophrenia and Social Control” (PN 34–35), the conference notes
of the first International Pynchon Week (which lasted a day) in 1994; and
“The Index Issue” (PN 36–39), which in 1996 included indexes for all of
Pynchon´s publications up to and including Vineland.
9. See orbit.openlibhums.org/submissions/.
10. See Postmodern Culture at pmc.iath.virginia.edu/text-only/.
11. vheissu.net/biblio/pubs.php?p=26.
12. See EBR at electronicbookreview.com/.
13. See Americana: E Journal of American Studies in Hungary at americanaejournal
.hu/?q=Pynchon.
14. GRAAT, 3 (March 2008): “Reading Against the Day”; Oklahoma City
University Law Review24.3 (Fall 1999), 431–835: “Thomas Pynchon and the
Law”: www.vheissu.net/biblio/pubs.php?p=27.
15. See Brian Stonehill to pynchon-l, April, 25, 1995 at www.waste.org/mail/?list=
pynchon-l&month=9504&msg=1185&sort=date; San Narciso Community
College Thomas Pynchon Home Page at www.pynchon.pomona.edu/.
16. See www.waste.org/mail/?list=pynchon-l&month=9505&msg=1229&sort=
date . The pynchon-l listserv can be accessed at www.waste.org/pynchon-l/.
17. See Thomas Pynchon American Novelist at thomaspynchon.com/.
18. The Gravity’s Rainbow wiki has been analyzed in Rowberry, “Reassessing.”
19. See Die Sauberen Schweine at www.ottosell.de/pynchon/.
20. See www.vheissu.net/.
21. See Pynchonoid at pynchonoid.blogspot.dk/.
22. See chumpsofchoice.blogspot.dk/.
23. See The Fictional Woods at w11.zetaboards.com/thefictionalwoods/forum/49
892/.
24. See drunkpynchon.com/about.
25. John Carvill, “The Fuss about Pynchon,” PopMatters, November 20, 2006:
www.popmatters.com/the-fuss-about-pynchon-2495747604.html.
26. George Howard, “Pynchon From A to V,” BookForum (Summer 2005), www
.bookforum.com/archive/sum_05/pynchon.html.
27. For example, Boris Kachka, “On the Thomas Pynchon Trail,” Vulture,
August 25, 2013, contains a trove of previously unpublished biographical
information: www.vulture.com/2013/08/thomas-pynchon-bleeding-edge
.html.
28. Florina Kostulias Jenkins, “An Enquiry into the Nature: Aloes Books and the
Pynchon ‘Piracies’,” Antiquarian Booksellers Association, nd: aba.org.uk/Bo
ok-Collecting-details.aspx?bcid=51.
chapter 42
Fandom
David Kipen
Is it OK to be a fan? Does every great writer even have fans? No one would
ever think to consecrate April 13 as “Henry James in Public Day.” Yet
Thomas Pynchon fans around the world pose with their paperbacks
every year on his birthday, sipping their Trystero Coffee like monkish
communicants partaking of the Eucharist. What is it about Pynchon that
inspires such loyalty? Partly, of course, it is the extraordinarily high quality
of his work and the exasperating thickheadedness of those unwilling to
recognize it. But what are fandom’s gifts to more traditional scholarship,
criticism, literary canon-ization?
The answers may occasion, among other approaches, a deeper study of
fandom and communal partisanship within Pynchon’s own work. Among
Pynchon’s favorite images are those of evanescent, makeshift social move-
ments: the “anarchist miracle” of a dancefloor filled with uncolliding deaf-
mutes (CL 132), a “temporary commune” of drivers on a fogged-in freeway
(IV 368) and the “remarkable empathy” of the rioters in “A Journey into
The Mind of Watts.”1 Now, 500 years after Thomas More wrote his
troublemaking little tract Utopia, do these temporary communes consti-
tute Thomas Pynchon’s idea of utopia and how much would
Pynchomanes be flattering themselves to think that they belong among
such “spontaneous and leaderless” (CL 120) communards? Maybe the most
utopian image of fandom in Pynchon comes in Against the Day (2006),
with that Edenic tree full of fireflies, or cucuji: “They rounded a corner and
there was a fig tree, with near as Frank could tell thousands of these big
luminous beetles, flashing brightly and then going dark, over and over, all
in perfect unison” (AD 991). With a hive mind like this one, a counterforce
might just stand a chance.
341
342 david kipen
Pynchon Fandom: The Communicants
We showed up once at a party, not a masquerade party, in disguise—
he as Hemingway, I as Scott Fitzgerald, each of us aware that the other
had been through a phase of enthusiasm for his respective author.
I suppose by then I was learning from Fariña how to be amused at
some of my obsessions.
Thomas Pynchon, “Introduction” to Richard Fariña,
Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me
Can an army of fans be beaten? The conventional wisdom says, “Sure, why
not?” Take away their hero and fans will run around like a movement with
its head cut off. Yet Pynchon’s work, to an uncanny degree, abounds with
instances of spontaneous, graceful, leaderless mobilities. It can sometimes
seem as if leaderless movements are the only ones in which Pynchon
reposes any hope at all. In book after book, at least once in each, we get
an image of promising mass action actually worthy of its many partisans,
uncontaminated by hierarchical direction from above.
There is a word for this, though the term fittingly seems a bit
decentralized, stronger in its multifarious meanings than in any one
totalizing definition. That word is anarchism. Much has been written
about Pynchon’s anarchic sense of humor and plot, somewhat less
about his career-long explication of the types and stereotypes of
344 david kipen
anarchist communalism.4 From his earliest work forward, the theme
keeps coming back like a bad penny. In addition to the instances
adduced above from The Crying of Lot 49, “A Journey into
The Mind of Watts,” and the end of Inherent Vice (2009), this check-
list would also surely include the Counterforce in Gravity’s Rainbow.
As with any motif, once you start looking for instances of these
unchoreographed ballets you see them everywhere – in or out of the
work at hand.
Pynchon fans have at least one freedom that his more authorized readers
do not usually go around invoking, at least not where anybody can over-
hear them: They can ask themselves “what would Pynchon do?” At some
level, this is deeply silly: exactly the kind of fanboy juvenilia that English
departments quite rightly deplore. He is a writer, not some kind of Ouija
board. And yet, if you devote your professional or personal reading life to
one author in particular, then not to at least wonder what he might have us
do in our various existential predicaments verges on hypocrisy. What, for
instance, must he have thought when a man who comes off like Brock
Vond with a bad comb-over was elected to lead the free world? More
generally, what can a utopian movement of fans, akin to Pynchon’s deaf-
mutes, rioters, lemmings, axmen, jazzboes, fireflies, coders, and fogbound
tailgaters, do to save us?
Pynchon is not telling. He provides a number of “proverbs for para-
noids” in Gravity’s Rainbow, but not rules for revolutionaries. To go by his
work, Pynchon sees hope primarily in love, ridicule, and karma: love,
because no plutocrat can buy it; ridicule, because no authority can stand
it; and karma, because no earthly power can stop it. Sadly, if a fan wants
a god he or she can’t have one. All they have is a fallible man, eighty years
old at this writing, and the quixotic hope that the next Pynchon novel will
somehow be what none has ever been: enough. In the meantime, Pynchon
fans and aca-fans alike wait and hope for just one more novel, like
Pentecostals for the rapture, like Dodger fans for a pennant. Wait till
next year – in Jerusalem.
Ultimately, is it O.K. to be a fan? In fact, not only is it O.K., it is
necessary, more necessary now than ever. Only a few American novelists
have ever nudged history off its axis. Harriet Beecher Stowe, certainly;
Upton Sinclair is a makeable case; John Steinbeck, incontestably. None of
them are fit to touch the hem of Pynchon’s zoot suit – and yet their legions
of readers are owed a debt of gratitude from freed slaves, unpoisoned
carnivores, and California farmworkers just the same. Could Pynchon’s
readership really ever hope to throw the incoming missiles off course and
Fandom 345
deliver civilization? Don’t bet against it. That’s the thing about fecoventi-
latory collisions. When the shit hits the fan, righteous fans hit back.
Notes
1. Thomas Pynchon, “A Journey into the Mind of Watts,” New York Times
Magazine, June 12, 1966, pp. 34–35, 78, 80–82, 84, p. 84.
2. Henry Jenkins, “Confessions of an Aca-Fan,” November 17, 2014,
henryjenkins.org/2014/11/where-fandom-studies-came-from-an-interview-wit
h-kristina-busse-and-karen-hellekson-part-one.html
3. Pynchon is hardly the only reclusive writer fascinated by imaginary playmates,
either. In addition to “The Secret Integration,” cf. J.D. Salinger’s “Uncle
Wiggily in Connecticut” and, in a way, B. Traven’s “Macario.” See
David Kipen, “Reclusion in the Works of Pynchon, Salinger, and Traven”
(unpublished thesis, 1985).
4. For an historical survey of communities that aspired to such conditions, see
Kenneth Rexroth, Communalism (New York: Seabury Press, 1974).
chapter 43
Eight novels published over fifty years would naturally elicit a variety of
reader responses, but Thomas Pynchon’s works in particular have pre-
sented mainstream reviewers with unique challenges, resulting in widely
divergent opinions and interpretations regarding such seemingly basic
matters as plot, character, tone, genre, and career trajectory. For one
thing, the books tend to be big, their combined length and density leading
some critics to throw up their hands in despair at being able to comprehend
them. In place of reasoned argument, these critics give us crazily prolifer-
ating lists of contradictory attributes in imitation of Pynchon’s own epic
catalogs. Thus Gravity’s Rainbow (1973) is described as “bonecrushingly
dense, compulsively elaborate, silly, obscene, funny, tragic, pastoral, his-
torical, philosophical, poetic, grindingly dull, inspired, horrific, cold,
bloated, beached, and blasted.”1 Meanwhile, Against the Day (2006) is
“audacious, bodacious, entropic, synoptic, electric, eclectic, entertaining,
hyperbraining” as well as “rambling, shambling, self-indulgent, non-
refulgent, overlong, full-of-bad-song, seriously-scattered, plainly mad-
hattered.”2
Size matters to book reviewers under pressure to meet deadlines.
The limitations of their own profession can predispose reviewers to dislike
Pynchon’s larger works, so that “length invariably becomes the subject of
criticism: a number of early reviews [of Against the Day] seemed to focus on
little else and it didn’t help, either, that the publication schedule only gave
critics about two weeks to digest the thing.”3 So for one critic, Pynchon’s
“novel as a whole resembles the zeppelin that appears in its first pages,
a giant bag of imaginative hot air.”4 Others, however, invite us to “experi-
ence the grandness and generosity of his vision.”5 One even claims that
“Pynchon thinks on a different scale from most novelists, to the point
where you’d almost want to find another word for the sort of thing he does,
since his books differ from most other novels the way a novel differs from
a short story, in exponential rather than simply linear fashion.”6
346
Book Reviews and Reception 347
Related to size, the encyclopedic range of subject matter has also been
a cause for comment. Some laud the compendious learning exhibited in
Pynchon’s writings, including a deep knowledge of science and technology
rarely found in fiction. “It may be that no American novelist before
Pynchon – science fiction writers not excepted – has brought so thorough
and so prepared a scientific intelligence to bear on modern life,” notes one
reviewer.7 A second praises Pynchon for his ability to “work from a range of
perspectives infinitely wider, more difficult to manage, more learned than
any to be found elsewhere in contemporary literature.”8 A third asserts that
he “may be one of the few artists alive who knows and understands enough
disparate data to make some sense of the past century and to connect dots
all the way to the present.”9
But there are those for whom this author’s eclectic erudition is not
a strength and does not make for great literature. After quoting from Mason
& Dixon (1997) – “what we were doing out in that Country together was
brave, scientifick beyond my understanding, and ultimately meaningless”
(MD 8) – one reviewer adds that “some readers may feel this to be a fair
summary of the book itself.”10 The difficulty of reading Pynchon has led
some critics to disparage him as an “academic” writer suitable only for
classroom study, dry-as-dust dissertations, or fanatical exegesis. “I find it
hard to take seriously the novel that is written to be taught,” proclaims one
critic, while another places Pynchon within a university-bred tradition of
“recherché postmodernism” that has “grown increasingly esoteric and
exclusionary, falsely intellectual and alienating to the mass of readers.”11
Some reviewers seem to see Pynchon’s arduous prose as an affront to
regular readers, siding with them against this absurdly esoteric author
and his academic acolytes. “Scholarly critics,” we are told, treat Pynchon
as a “difficult, meditative writer who is thought to put all merely lucid or
entertaining practitioners to shame,” and academic analyses of Pynchon
are “a nightmarish effusion of mostly unnecessary paper designed to
perpetuate a bureaucratic institution.”12 Reviewers dismiss close readings
of this author as “the sort of secret-decoder-ring-style analysis that often
passes for literary discernment among Pynchon devotees,” while fans who
welcome and actually attempt to meet the challenge of reading Pynchon
are labeled “big-book boosters” and “obsessives who began contributing to
the online wiki annotation of Against the Day before finishing its 1,085
pages.”13 In these book critics’ scorn for Pynchon scholars and fans, it is
hard not to discern a certain envy of those who, not subject to pressing
deadlines, might have the time to do what these reviewers cannot: study
and enjoy his formidable fiction.
348 douglas keesey
Expansive and erudite, Pynchon’s works are also episodic in structure
and indeterminate in their endings, often provoking further complaint.
“All of Pynchon’s novels . . . are long, rambling, multilayered, under-
plotted, quasi-unfinished monsters,” laments one critic, with plot “threads
left dangling everywhere, sometimes for hundreds of pages, ultimately
forever.”14 Another describes Against the Day as “a humongous, bloated
jigsaw puzzle of a story, pretentious without being provocative, elliptical
without being illuminating, complicated without being rewardingly
complex.”15 As read by these critics, moreover, Pynchon’s manically inven-
tive yet aimless plots are peopled not by convincing characters but by flat
and farcical caricatures: “what Pynchon does with his characters, increas-
ingly, is juvenile vaudeville”; he has a “habit of making his flat characters
dance for a moment on stage and then whisking them away.”16 The result is
a kind of “hysterical realism” featuring characters who “have a showy
liveliness, a theatricality, that almost succeeds in hiding the fact that they
are without life.”17 One reviewer put it even more bluntly: “I hate the
cardboard cutouts [Pynchon] tries to pass off as human characters, and
I hate – maybe most of all – his characters’ stupid names.”18
Indeed, the fact that the characters have “silly,” “ditsy, Dickensian”
names, along with their sometimes farcical hijinks, has been a real sticking-
point for some critics, who are puzzled and put off by the comic tone
Pynchon can seem to adopt even when dealing with the most serious
subject matter.19 As early as V. (1963) and The Crying of Lot 49 (1966),
one reviewer found that the “exuberance of such comedy . . . makes it
nearly impossible” to see the books as having “more meaning than
a practical joke.”20 About the ominous portent of World War I in
Against the Day, one critic charged that “since the [characters] it sort of
happens to are flimsy constructions, we don’t experience it as tragic.”21
“[A]s in farce,” another wrote, “the cost to final seriousness is considerable:
everyone is ultimately protected from real menace because no one really
exists.”22 More recently a reviewer of Pynchon’s 9/11 novel, Bleeding Edge
(2013), lamented that the author “squanders so much of his energy on
clowning,” especially given that, in the context of such a tragic event, “the
madcappery seems . . . baffling and cheap.”23
What appear as flaws to some become distinguishing features worthy of
celebration by others, who see them as signs of Pynchon’s particular talents
as a writer. The comedic tone, “flat” characters, episodic plots, and unre-
solved endings are all lauded as necessary elements in this author’s overall
vision, related to his great theme of paranoia. “For over half a century,
Thomas Pynchon has been America’s preeminent novelist of paranoia, the
Book Reviews and Reception 349
writer who sees patterns and connections where others find only the
random detritus of history,” one reviewer notes.24 Another adds that “he
has, from the beginning, had One Big Story to tell . . . the Story of the
Unwilling Cyborg,” the character who “discovers that he/she is a victim,
may even be a central target, of a massive conspiracy.”25 If Pynchon’s
characters are flat, it is because they have been flattened by “the historical
processes that overwhelm them,” “forced to submit to anonymous energies
in bureaucracies and computers and machines.”26
There is black comedy and gallows humor in this forced flattening of
character, but also compassion and melancholy regarding the loss of
humanity: “Pynchon himself’s a good companion, full of real affection
for his people and places, even as he lampoons them for suffering the
postmodern condition of being only partly real.”27 There is hope, too, in
the humor, in “the fact that doom and hijinks can nestle side by side.”28
This may signify a desperate desire that the characters’ “zany comic
routines and digressions” can serve as a “frantic defense against the fear
and love of death.”29 Alternatively, it may indicate a gentler form of
optimism, a belief in the “freedoms” of low “lasciviousness” and “punning
inanity.”30 Again, it may betray a “hope” that “at the boundaries of
propriety and behavior” there can be found a “psychic locale for resistance”
to the deadly serious conspiracies that threaten to co-opt us to their wills.31
As one reviewer put it, “Pynchon has an extraordinary, open-ended affec-
tion for whoever and whatever is not serious – that is, not wholeheartedly
committed to rationality, purpose, and greed.”32
If Pynchon’s fiction “spirals off into absurdity, becoming a collage of
trippy interludes peopled by all manner of goofs and lowlifes,” the fact that
“these scenes only fitfully advance the narrative and sometimes cause us to
forget there is one” could be a good thing.33 It suggests that the force
conspiring against these characters’ humanity may not be all-powerful and
that their flattening may not yet be predetermined. “One ought to be
accustomed, by now, to Pynchon’s leaving his mysteries unresolved,”
argues one reviewer. “Incompleteness is the inherent vice of paranoid
theories of history, the limitation of such theories that Pynchon has always
freely acknowledged. Criticism of Pynchon’s ‘shaggy dog’ or sloppy plot-
ting neglects the emphasis that he has always laid on the dual meaning of
the word plot.”34 If Pynchon’s novels unveil the plots of those who would
limit our freedom of thought and action, they also counter these plots by
suggesting ways we might diverge from and potentially evade the dehu-
manizing ends that have been planned for us. Pynchon “uses [his plot]
digressions to escape the tyranny of narrative and ideology” and “to mirror
350 douglas keesey
and celebrate the way many people live their lives” – or at least try to, in the
midst of such tyranny, claims one critic.35 Another states that “Pynchon
depicts the world as he sees it, riddled by the depredations of greed,
conspiracy, and intolerance . . . But his novels take the form of the world
as he wishes it, hence their mighty powers of consolation.”36
While some critics are puzzled by Pynchon’s mixing of fantasy and
historical reality, and perturbed by the prankish liberties he takes with
the official record, others view him as an “audacious trickster”: someone
whose fictions explore not only “what the past might (or might not) have
been, but also what the future – i.e. our present – might have been, and
might still some day become,” if we could access people’s “unspoken, often
unacknowledged human desires” for something different.37 These
reviewers see the “humor” of Pynchon’s historical “anachronism” as “creat-
ing a rich stew of accepted and invented history, anecdote, myth, and
hyperbole” wherein “the haunted world, the suprareal, the ghostly, and the
impossible have the same valence as the facts of history as we receive
them.”38 The result is “history re-imagined, an alternative to recorded
history.”39 “[T]hat’s what radical novels like his are for, Pynchon implies:
to provide the kind of world our leaders would never allow, if only to
inhabit for the week or two it takes to read this endlessly inventive work.”40
Like Pynchon’s seriously playful blending of fiction and historical fact,
his mixing of high literary style and low popular genres has sometimes been
received as mere tomfoolery. As far back as V., one critic complained of
Pynchon’s prose as “pretty bad, full of all the rattle and buzz” of
a “television commercial” and “very close to [the thought balloons]
of the comic books of the fifties.”41 About the boy’s-adventure style that
Pynchon adopts for sections of Against the Day, one reviewer calls it “a
parody of a lame parody of a form of pop culture so dated that hardly
anyone remembers it well enough to parody it.”42 Another notes that
Pynchon “pastiches” a number of popular fictions from the past, including
many that this reviewer is “not badly read enough to recognize.”43 To these
critics’ disdain for the lowly and outdated can be added a charge of
incoherence: “there are also too many tonal shifts, as though Pynchon set
out to mimic all the styles of popular fiction.”44 The charge sheet also
includes the allegation of insufficient seriousness, as when one reviewer
maintains that adopting the genre of the spy novel, including a “Bond-
villainous character named Gabriel Ice,” trivializes 9/11: “this postmodern
novel [Bleeding Edge] often degenerates into a crude cartoon; and it looks
particularly grievous when [Pynchon] tries to hack a path back through all
that irony and pastiche to sincerity.”45 The jury is still out on what
Book Reviews and Reception 351
Pynchon is doing with his pastiches of popular styles, but a more generous
(and less literary-elitist) view might be to see them as akin to his alternate
histories – as pop-fiction repositories of people’s unrealized dreams.
Several trend-spotting critics have highlighted what they see as
Pynchon’s recent turn, in Inherent Vice (2009) and Bleeding Edge, toward
writing detective fictions set closer to the present day – a change that
seemed significant until others recalled that his first two novels, V. and
The Crying of Lot 49, had also been influenced by spy and private-eye
fiction and contained scenes contemporary to their own time of writing.
Some reviewers see Pynchon’s latest works as more female-focused and
woman-friendly: In Against the Day, he has “allowed more women char-
acters to hang out with other women than in all his other books combined,
and he’s included some interesting feminist critiques of macho
anarchists.”46 However, there are those who point out that this is nothing
new, noting that Pynchon centered a whole novel around a female prota-
gonist (Oedipa Maas) as early as 1966, and others who argue that Pynchon
is just as “sexist” and “misogynist” with his most recent female lead
(Maxine in Bleeding Edge) as he has been in previous works.47
Some, finally, have praised the “shorter, less daunting” novels, celebrat-
ing them as “free-flowing and light and funny and maybe the most readily
accessible” while finding in them “a move towards . . . closed form,”
“genre,” and “communication.”48 However, others dispute the trend,
noting that Pynchon has always alternated between long and shorter
works, or they dispute the judgment, disparaging the “shorter and easier
to read” works as lacking “the menace and the passion” of their “prede-
cessors” – as being (in another critic’s words) “Pynchon lite.”49 Given these
reviewers’ bold yet contradictory pronouncements on the meaning and
value of Pynchon’s works, it seems fitting to end with a moment of critical
humility: “I’m acting as if we all know what it is to read Pynchon. In fact,
none of us do, for figuring out what it is like to read Pynchon is what it is
like to read Pynchon.”50
Notes
1. Richard Locke, “Gravity’s Rainbow,” New York Times Book Review, March 11,
1973, pp. 1–3, 12, 14.
2. Carlin Romano, “Against the Day,” Philadelphia Inquirer, November 19,
2006, p. H1.
3. Luc Sante, “Inside the Time Machine,” New York Review of Books, 54.1,
January 11, 2007, pp. 8–12.
352 douglas keesey
4. Tom LeClair, “Lead Zeppelin,” Bookforum, 13.4 (December 2006-January
2007), pp. 17, 58.
5. Dale Peck, “Heresy of Truth,” Critical Mass: Blog of the National Book Critics
Circle Board of Directors, December 9, 2010.
6. Sante, “Inside the Time Machine.”
7. Robert Sklar, “The New Novel, USA: Thomas Pynchon,” Nation, 205,
September 25, 1967, pp. 277–79.
8. Richard Poirier, “Rocket Power,” Saturday Review of the Arts, 1.3, March 1,
1973, pp. 59–64.
9. Jonathan Rosenbaum, “Around the World in 1,085 Pages,” Chicago Reader,
30.10, November 30, 2006.
10. Louis Menand, “Entropology,” New York Review of Books, 44.10, June 12,
1997, pp. 22–25.
11. Gore Vidal, “American Plastic: The Matter of Fiction,” New York Review of
Books, July 15, 1976, pp. 31–39; Dale Peck, “Hatchet Jobs,” New Republic, 229.
22–23, December 1, 2003, pp. 26–29.
12. Michael Wood, “The Apprenticeship of Thomas Pynchon,” New York Times,
April 15, 1984, pp. 1, 28–29; Jonathan Rosenbaum, “Pynchon’s Prayer,”
Chicago Reader, March 9, 1990, pp. 8, 29–31.
13. Laura Miller, “Pynchon Lights Up,” Salon, July 31, 2009; Carolyn Kellogg,
“Inherent Vice,” Los Angeles Times, August 2, 2009, p. E1.
14. Louis Menand, “Do the Math,” New Yorker, 82.40, November 27, 2006, pp.
170–72.
15. Michiko Kakutani, “A Pynchonesque Turn by Pynchon,” New York Times,
November 20, 2006, pp. E1, E8.
16. James Wood, “Compliments of Sorts,” London Review of Books, 31.21,
November 5, 2009; James Wood, “All Rainbow, No Gravity,” New
Republic, 236.10–11, March 5, 2007, pp. 24–30.
17. James Wood, “Human, All Too Inhuman,” New Republic, 223.4, July 24,
2000, pp. 41–45.
18. Sam Anderson, “Incoherent Vice,” New York, 42.25, August 10, 2009.
19. Wood, “All Rainbow”; Michiko Kakutani, “A Calamity Tailor-Made for
Internet Conspiracy Theories,” New York Times, September 10, 2013, p. C1.
20. Richard Poirier, “Embattled Underground,” New York Times Book Review,
May 1, 1966, pp. 42–43.
21. Laura Miller, “The Fall of the House of Pynchon,” Salon, November 21,
2006.
22. Wood, “All Rainbow.”
23. Talitha Stevenson, “Bleeding Edge,” Guardian, September 28, 2013.
24. Adam Kirsch, “Thomas Pynchon Takes on September 11,” New Republic,
September 11, 2013.
25. Frank McConnell, “Fabulous, Fabulous California,” Los Angeles Times Book
Review, December 31, 1989, pp. 1, 7.
26. Rosenbaum, “Pynchon’s Prayer”; George Levine, “V-2,” Partisan Review,
40.3 (Fall 1973), 517–29.
Book Reviews and Reception 353
27. Jonathan Lethem, “Pynchonopolis,” New York Times Book Review,
September 12, 2013, pp. 1, 24–25.
28. Sante, “Inside the Time Machine.”
29. Locke, “Gravity’s Rainbow.”
30. Lethem, “Pynchonopolis.”
31. Christopher Sorrentino, “Modern Times,” Los Angeles Times, November 19,
2006.
32. Michael Wood, “Humming Along,” London Review of Books, 29.1, January 4,
2007, pp. 12–13.
33. Walter Kirn, “Drugs to Do, Cases to Solve,” New York Times Book Review,
August 23, 2009, p. 9.
34. Michael Chabon, “The Crying of September 11,” New York Review of Books,
60.17, November 7, 2013, pp. 68–70.
35. Rosenbaum, “Around the World.”
36. Lethem, “Pynchonopolis.”
37. Peck, “Heresy of Truth.”
38. T. Coraghessan Boyle, “The Great Divide,” New York Times Book Review,
May 18, 1997, p. 9.
39. Elizabeth Jane Wall Hinds, “Making the Rounds of History,” Electronic Book
Review, 8, November 2, 1998.
40. Steven Moore, “The Marxist Brothers,” Washington Post Book World,
November 19, 2006, p. 10.
41. Vidal, “American Plastic.”
42. Miller, “Fall of the House of Pynchon.”
43. Wood, “All Rainbow.”
44. Menand, “Do the Math.”
45. Theo Tait, “Bleeding Edge,” Guardian, September 13, 2013.
46. Rosenbaum, “Around the World.”
47. Steve Donoghue, “Bonfire of the Inanities,” Open Letters Monthly,
November 1, 2013.
48. Zach Baron, “Surf Noir,” Village Voice 54.32, August 4, 2009, p. 31;
Salman Rushdie, “Still Crazy After All These Years,” New York Times Book
Review, January 14, 1990, pp. 1, 36–37; Paul Mason, “Is This Pynchon’s ‘Late
Style’?” BBC News Idle Scrawl: Paul Mason’s Blog, July 31, 2009.
49. Thomas Jones, “Call It Capitalism,” London Review of Books, 31.17,
September 10, 2009, pp. 9–10; Tait, “Bleeding Edge.”
50. Lethem, “Pynchonopolis.”
chapter 44
Notes
1. Steven Weisenburger, A Gravity’s Rainbow Companion: Sources and Contexts
for Pynchon’s Novel (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 1988).
2. Alec McHoul and David Wills, Writing Pynchon: Strategies in Fictional Analysis
(Carbondale, IL: University of Illinois Press, 1990).
3. Elisabeth Jane Wall Hinds (ed.), The Multiple Worlds of Pynchon’s Mason &
Dixon (Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2005); Thomas Schaub,
“The Environmental Pynchon: Gravity’s Rainbow and the Ecological
Context,” Pynchon Notes, 42–43 (1998), 59–72.
4. Stefan Mattessich, Lines of Flight: Discursive Time and Countercultural Desire in
the Work of Thomas Pynchon (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002).
5. In addition to Samuel Thomas, Pynchon and the Political (London: Routledge,
2007), a representative sample of books and articles includes Sascha Pöhlmann,
Pynchon’s Postnational Imagination (Heidelberg: Universitetsverlag, 2010);
Luc Herman and Steven Weisenburger, Gravity’s Rainbow, Domination and
Freedom (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2013); Jeffrey S. Baker,
“Amerikkka Über Alles: German Nationalism, American Imperialism, and the
1960s Antiwar Movement in Gravity’s Rainbow,” Critique, 40.4 (1999), 323–41;
and Kathryn Hume, “The Religious and Political Vision of Pynchon’s Against
the Day,” Philological Quarterly, 86.1–2 (2007), 163–87.
6. Walter B. Rideout, The Radical Novel in the United States, 1900–1954: Some
Interrelationships of Literature and Society (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 1956), pp. 4, 16, 201, 290.
Further Reading
Primary Bibliography
Novels
V. (Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1963)
The Crying of Lot 49 (Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1966)
Gravity’s Rainbow (New York: Viking, 1973)
Vineland (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1990)
Mason & Dixon (New York: Henry Holt, 1997)
Against the Day (New York: Penguin, 2006)
Inherent Vice (New York: Penguin, 2009)
Bleeding Edge (New York: Penguin, 2013)
Short Fiction
“The Voice of the Hamster,” Purple and Gold 9.2 (November 13, 1952), p. 2.
“Voice of the Hamster,” Purple and Gold 9.3 (December 18, 1952), p. 3.
“Voice of the Hamster,” Purple and Gold 9.4 (January 22, 1953), pp. 2, 4.
“Voice of the Hamster,” Purple and Gold 9.5 (February 19, 1953), p. 8.
“Ye Legend of Sir Stupid and the Purple Knight,” Purple and Gold, 9. 6 (March 19,
1953), p. 2.
“The Boys,” Purple and Gold 9.6 (March 19, 1953), p. 8.
Minstrel Island With John Kirkpatrick Sale, Uncompleted Libretto for Musical,
Spring 1958, in Harry Ransom, Humanities Research Center, University of
Austin, Texas.
“The Small Rain,” The Cornell Writer 6.2 (March 1959), 14–32 (in SL).
“Mortality and Mercy in Vienna,” Epoch 9.4 (Spring 1959), 195–213.
“Low-Lands,” New World Writing 16 (March 1960), 85–108 (in SL).
“Entropy,” Kenyon Review 22.2 (Spring 1960), 277–92 (in SL).
“Under the Rose,” The Noble Savage 3 (May 1961), 233–51 (in SL).
“The Secret Integration,” Saturday Evening Post 235 (December 19–26, 1964),
pp. 36–37, 39, 42–44, 46–49, 51 (in SL).
Slow Learner (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1984).
361
362 Further Reading
Nonfiction
“Togetherness,” Aerospace Safety 16.2 (1960), pp. 6–8.
“A Gift of Books,” Holiday 38.6 (December 1965), pp. 164–65.
“A Journey Into The Mind of Watts,” New York Times Magazine, June 12, 1966,
pp. 34–35, 78, 80–82, 84.
“Introduction,” in Richard Fariña, Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me
(New York: Penguin, 1983), pp. v–xiv.
“Is It O.K. to Be a Luddite?” New York Times Book Review, October 28, 1984, pp. 1,
40–41.
“Introduction,” in Thomas Pynchon, Slow Learner (Boston: Little, Brown and
Company, 1984).
“The Heart’s Eternal Vow,” review of Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel
García Márquez, New York Times Book Review, April 10, 1988, pp. 1,
47, 49.
“Introduction,” in Donald Barthelme, The Teachings of Don B., Kim Herzinger
(ed.) (New York: Turtle Bay, 1992), pp. xv–xxii.
“Nearer, My Couch, to Thee,” New York Times Book Review, June 6, 1993, pp.
3, 57.
Liner notes to Spiked! The Music of Spike Jones (Catalyst, 1994).
Liner notes (copyrighted 1995) to Lotion, Nobody’s Cool (spinART, 1996).
“Hallowe’en? Over Already?” The Cathedral School Newsletter (January 1999), pp.
1, 3.
“Introduction,” in Jim Dodge, Stone Junction: An Alchemical Pot-Boiler
(Edinburgh: Canongate, 2000), pp. ix–xv.
“Foreword,” in George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four (New York: Plume, 2003),
pp. vii–xxvi.
“The Evolution of the Daily Show,” program notes for The Daily Show: Ten
Fucking Years (The Concert), New York: Irving Plaza, November 16, 2006.
Secondary Bibliography
Biography
Hollander, Charles, “Pynchon’s Inferno,” Cornell Alumni News (November 1978),
24–30.
Kachka, Boris, “On the Thomas Pynchon Trail: From the Long Island of His
Boyhood to the ‘Yupper West Side’ of His New Novel,” Vulture (August 25,
2013), www.vulture.com/2013/08/thomas-pynchon-bleeding-edge.html.
“Mapping Thomas Pynchon,” Vheissu, www.vheissu.net/bio/whereabouts.php.
Weisenburger, Steven, “Thomas Pynchon at Twenty-Two: A Recovered
Autobiographical Sketch,” American Literature, 62.4 (1990), 692–97.
Winston, Mathew, “The Quest for Pynchon,” Twentieth Century Literature, 21.3
(1975), 278–87.
Nonfiction
Cowart, David, Thomas Pynchon and the Dark Passages of History (Atlanta, GA:
University of Georgia Press, 2011).
Herman, Luc, and Bart Verveack, “Didn’t Know Any Better: Race and Unreliable
Narration in ‘Low-Lands’ by Thomas Pynchon,” in Elke D’hoker and
Gunther Martens (eds.), Narrative Unreliability in the Twentieth-Century
First-Person Novel (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2008), pp. 231–46.
Muth, Katie, “The Grammars of the System: Thomas Pynchon at Boeing,” Textual
Practice 473–493 (2019), DOI:doi.org/10.1080/0950236X.2019.1580514.
Rolls, Albert, “‘A Dual Man [and Oeuvre], Aimed Two Ways at Once’: The Two
Directions of Pynchon’s Life and Thought,” Orbit: A Journal of American
Literature 4.1 (2016), np. DOI:doi.org/10.16995/orbit.188.
Wisnicki, Adrian, “A Trove of New Works by Thomas Pynchon? Bomarc Service
News Rediscovered,” Pynchon Notes 46–49 (2000–01), 9–34.
East Coast
Daly, Robert, “Burned by the Hangman: Puritan Agency and the Road Not
Taken,” Pynchon Notes 44–45 (1999), 205–13.
Griffin, Susan M., “Awful Disclosures: Women’s Evidence in the Escaped Nun’s
Tale,” PMLA 111.1 (1996), 93–107.
Leise, Christopher, “Thomas Pynchon, the Sloth of Salvation, and Becoming
Converted,” in Christopher Leise, The Story upon a Hill: The Puritan Myth in
Contemporary American Fiction (Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama
Press, 2017), pp. 83–108.
Lhamon, W. T., Deliberate Speed: The Origins of a Cultural Style in the American
1950s (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002).
McHale, Brian, “Mason & Dixon in the Zone: Or, a Brief Poetics of Pynchon-
Space,” in Brooke Horvath and Irving Malin (eds.), Pynchon and Mason &
Dixon (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press, 2000), pp. 43–62.
Olster, Stacey Michele, “A ‘Patch of England, at a three-thousand-Mile Off-set’?
Representing America in Mason & Dixon,” MFS Modern Fiction Studies 50. 2
(2004), 283–302.
366 Further Reading
Reilly, Terry, “Narrating Tesla in Against the Day,” in Jeffrey Severs and
Christopher Leise (eds.), Pynchon’s Against the Day: A Corrupted Pilgrim’s
Guide (Newark, DE: University of Delaware Press, 2011), pp. 139–66.
Vaughn, Alden T., and Edward W. Clark, “Cups of Common Calamity,” in
Alden T. Vaughn and Edward W. Clark (eds.), Puritans Among the Indians:
Accounts of Captivity and Redemption 1676–1724 (Cambridge, MA: Belknap
Press, 1981), pp. 1–29.
West Coast
Cowart, David, Thomas Pynchon and the Dark Passages of History (Athens, GA:
University of Georgia Press, 2011).
Herman, Luc, and Steven Weisenburger, Gravity’s Rainbow, Domination, and
Freedom (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2013).
McClintock, Scott, and John Miller, Pynchon’s California (Iowa City,
IA: University of Iowa Press, 2014).
Miller, John, “Present Subjunctive: Pynchon’s California Novels,” Critique:
Studies in Contemporary Fiction 54.3 (2013), 225–37.
Schaub, Thomas Hill, “The Crying of Lot 49 and Other California Novels,” in
Inger H. Dalsgaard, Luc Herman, and Brian McHale (eds.), The Cambridge
Companion to Thomas Pynchon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2011), pp. 30–43.
Severs, Jeffrey, “‘A City of the Future’: Gravity’s Rainbow and the 1962 Seattle
World’s Fair,” Twentieth-Century Literature 62.2 (June 2016), 145–69.
Shoop, Casey, “Thomas Pynchon, Postmodernism, and the Rise of the New Right
in California,” Contemporary Literature 53.1 (2012), 51–86.
Family
Duyfhuizen, Bernard, “‘A Suspension Forever at the Hinge of Doubt’:
The Reader-Trap of Bianca in Gravity’s Rainbow,” Journal of
Interdisciplinary Thought on Contemporary Cultures, 2.1 (1991), 1–23.
Hayles, N. Katherine, “‘Who Was Saved?’: Families, Snitches, and Recuperation
in Pynchon’s Vineland,” in Geoffrey Green, Donald J. Greiner, and
Larry McCaffery (eds.), The Vineland Papers: Critical Takes on Pynchon’s
Novel (Normal, IL: Dalkey Archive Press, 1994), pp. 14–30.
McClintock, Scott, “The Origins of the Family, Private Property, and the State of
California in Pynchon’s Fiction,” in Scott McClintock and John Miller
(eds.), Pynchon’s California (Iowa City, IA: University of Iowa Press, 2014),
pp. 91–111.
370 Further Reading
Purdy, Strother, “Gravity’s Rainbow and the Culture of Childhood,” Pynchon
Notes 22–23 (1988), 7–23.
Rohland, Mark, “‘Feeling Totally Familied Out’: Teaching Pynchon through
Families,” in Thomas Schaub (ed.), Approaches to Teaching Pynchon’s
The Crying of Lot 49 and Other Works (New York: Modern Language
Association, 2008), pp. 46–51.
Humor
Adorno, Theodor, and Max Horkheimer, Dialectic of Enlightenment, trans. John
Cumming (London: Verso, 1995).
de Man, Paul, “The Rhetoric of Temporality,” in Blindness and Insight: Essays in
the Rhetoric of Contemporary Criticism (Abingdon: Routledge, 1996).
Freud, Sigmund, Jokes and their Relation to the Unconscious (1905), trans. James
Strachey (London: Penguin, 1991).
Further Reading 371
Freud, Sigmund, “Humor” (1927), in The Standard Edition of the Complete
Psychological Works, Vol. XXI, trans. James Strachey and Anna Freud
(London: Vintage, 2001).
Schopenhauer, Arthur, The World as Will and Idea, trans. R. B. Haldane and
J. Kemp (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1964).
Baudelaire, Charles, “The Essence of Laughter,” in The Painter of Modern Life
(1863), trans. Jonathan Mayne (London: Phaidon, 1995).
Popular Culture
Adorno, Theodor, The Culture Industry: Selected Essays on Mass Culture.
J. M. Bernstein (ed.) (London: Routledge, 1991).
Dussere, Erik, “Flirters, Deserters, Wimps, and Pimps: Thomas Pynchon’s Two
Americas,” Contemporary Literature 51. 3 (2010), 565–95.
Fiske, John, Reading the Popular (London: Routledge, 1989).
Glover, David and Scott McCracken (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to Popular
Fiction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012).
Wallace, David Foster, “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U. S. Fiction,” Review of
Contemporary Fiction 13.2 (1993), 151–94.
Mathematics
Engelhardt, Nina, Modernism, Fiction and Mathematics (Edinburgh: Edinburgh
University Press, 2018).
Engelhardt, Nina, “Scientific Metafiction and Postmodernism,” Zeitschrift für
Anglistik und Amerikanistik, Special Issue: Aspects of the Science Novel 64.2
(2016), 189–205.
Ozier, Lance W., “Antipointsman/ Antimexico: Some Mathematical Imagery in
Gravity’s Rainbow,” Critique 16.2 (1974), 73–90.
Ozier, Lance W., “The Calculus of Transformation: More Mathematical Imagery
in Gravity’s Rainbow,” Twentieth Century Literature 21.2 (1975), 193–210.
Schachterle, Lance, and P. K. Aravind, “The Three Equations in Gravity’s
Rainbow,” Pynchon Notes 46–49 (2000), 157–69.
Philosophy
Berressem, Hanjo, Pynchon’s Poetics: Interfacing Theory and Text (Urbana, IL:
University of Illinois Press, 1993).
Eve, Martin Paul, Pynchon and Philosophy: Wittgenstein, Foucault and Adorno
(London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014).
McConnell, Will, “Pynchon, Foucault, Power, and Strategies of Resistance,”
Pynchon Notes 32–33 (1993), 152–68.
McHoul, Alec, and David Wills, “‘Die Welt Ist Alles Was Der Fall ist’
(Wittgenstein, Weissmann, Pynchon) / ‘Le Signe Est Toujours Le Signe de
La chute’ (Derrida),” Southern Review 16 (1983), 274–91.
Palmeri, Frank, “Other than Postmodern? Foucault, Pynchon, Hybridity, Ethics,”
Postmodern Culture 12 (2001), np.
Pöhlmann, Sascha, “Silences and Worlds: Wittgenstein and Pynchon,” Pynchon
Notes 56–57 (2009), 158–80.
Twigg, George, “‘Sell Out With Me Tonight’: Popular Music,
Commercialization, and Commodification in Vineland, The Crying of Lot
49, and V.,” Orbit: A Journal of American Literature 2.2 (2014), np. DOI:doi.
org/10.7766/orbit.v2.2.55.
Narratology
Bové, Paul A., “History and Fiction: The Narrative Voices of Pynchon’s Gravity’s
Rainbow,” Modern Fiction Studies 50.3 (2004), 657–80.
Hägg, Samuli, Narratologies of Gravity’s Rainbow (Joensuu: University of
Joensuu, 2005).
Hardack, Richard, “Consciousness Without Borders: Narratology in Against
the Day and the Works of Thomas Pynchon,” Criticism 52.1 (2010), 91–128.
Herman, David, Manfred Jahn, and Marie-Laure Ryan (eds.), Routledge
Encyclopedia of Narrative Theory (London and New York: Routledge, 2005).
Hühn, Peter, Jan Christoph Meister, John Pier, and Wolf Schmid (eds.),
Handbook of Narratology (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014).
378 Further Reading
McHale, Brian, “‘You Used to Know What These Words Mean’: Misreading
Gravity’s Rainbow (1985),” in Constructing Postmodernism (London and
New York: Routledge, 1992), pp. 87–114.
Nicholson, Colin E., and Randall W. Stevenson, “‘Words You Never Wanted to
Hear’: Fiction, History and Narratology in The Crying of Lot 49,” Pynchon
Notes 16 (1985), 89–109.
Weisenburger, Steven, “Hyper-Embedded Narration in Gravity’s Rainbow,”
Pynchon Notes 34–35 (1994), 70–87.
Genre
Dugdale, John, Thomas Pynchon: Allusive Parables of Power (New York:
St. Martin’s Press, 1990).
Elias, Amy J., Sublime Desire: History and Post-1960s Fiction (Baltimore, MD:
Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001).
Kharpertian, Theodore D., A Hand to Turn the Time: The Menippean Satires of
Thomas Pynchon (Rutherford, NJ: Farleigh Dickinson University Press, 1990).
Madsen, Deborah, The Postmodernist Allegories of Thomas Pynchon (Leicester:
Leicester University Press, 1991).
McHale, Brian, “POSTcyberMODERNpunkISM,” in Constructing
Postmodernism (London: Routledge, 1992), pp. 225–42.
Petillon, Pierre-Yves, “A Re-cognition of Her Errand into the Wilderness,” in
Patrick O’Donnell (ed.), New Essays on The Crying of Lot 49 (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1991), pp. 127–70.
Postmodernism
Bertens, Hans, The Idea of the Postmodern: A History (London: Routledge, 1995).
DeKoven, Marianne, Utopia Limited: The Sixties and the Emergence of the
Postmodern (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004).
Hutcheon, Linda. A Poetics of Postmodernism: History, Theory, Fiction (New York:
Routledge, 1988).
Killen, Andreas, 1973 Nervous Breakdown: Watergate, Warhol, and the Birth of Post-
Sixties America (New York: Bloomsbury, 2006).
McHale, Brian, and Len Platt (eds.), The Cambridge History of Postmodern
Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016).
Ambiguity
Madsen, Deborah L., The Postmodernist Allegories of Thomas Pynchon (Leicester:
Leicester University Press, 1989).
Quilligan, Maureen, The Language of Allegory (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University
Press, 1979).
Schaub, Thomas H., Pynchon: The Voice of Ambiguity (Urbana, IL: University of
Illinois Press, 1981).
Further Reading 379
Serpell, C. Namwali, Seven Modes of Uncertainty (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 2014).
Realities
Ashline, William L., “The Problem of Impossible Fictions,” Style 29.2 (1995), 215–34.
Bersani, Leo, “Pynchon, Paranoia, and Literature,” Representations 25 (1989),
99–118.
Eve, Martin Paul, “Whose Line is it Anyway? Enlightenment, Revolution, and
Ipseic Ethics in the Works of Thomas Pynchon,” Textual Practice 26.5 (2012),
921–39.
McClure, John A., Partial Faiths: Postsecular Fiction in the Age of Pynchon and
Morrison (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2007).
Molloy, Seán, “Escaping the Politics of the Irredeemable Earth – Anarchy and
Transcendence in the Novels of Thomas Pynchon,” Theory & Event 13.3
(2010), np.
Weisenburger, Steven, A Gravity’s Rainbow Companion: Sources and Contexts
for Pynchon’s Novel, rev. ed. (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press,
2006).
Material Readings
Andersen, Tore Rye, “Pynchon’s Twenty-First Century Paratexts,” in
Joanna Freer (ed.), The New Pynchon Studies: Twenty-First Century Critical
Revisions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2019).
Bérubé, Michael, Marginal Forces/Cultural Centers: Tolson, Pynchon, and the
Politics of the Canon (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992).
Eliot, Simon, and Jonathan Rose (eds.), A Companion to the History of the Book
(Oxford: Blackwell, 2007).
Finkelstein, David, and Alistair McCleery (eds.), The Book History Reader, 2nd ed.
(London: Routledge, 2006).
Thompson, John B., Merchants of Culture: The Publishing Business in the Twenty-
First Century (New York: Plume, 2012).
Digital Readings
Davidson, Donald, “Communication and Convention,” Synthese, 59. 1
(1984), 3–17.
Hayles, N. Katherine, Chaos Bound: Orderly Disorder in Contemporary Literature
and Science (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1990).
Tabbi, Joseph, Postmodern Sublime: Technology and Personal Identity from Mailer
to Cyberpunk (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995).
Wallace, David Foster, “E Unibus Pluram: Television and U. S. Fiction,” Review of
Contemporary Fiction 13.2 (Summer 1993), 151–94.
380 Further Reading
Fandom
Doyle, Michael, Radical Chapters: Pacifist Bookseller Roy Kepler and the Paperback
Revolution (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2012).
Hellekson, Karen, “Fandom and Fan Culture,” in Gerry Canavan and Eric
Carl Link (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to American Science Fiction
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 153–63.
Kipen, David, “Pynchon Draws the Defining Pair,” Los Angeles Daily News,
April 27, 1997, np.
Rexroth, Kenneth, Communalism: From Its Origins to the Twentieth Century
(New York: Seabury Press, 1974).
“Thomas Pynchon, Against the Day” [Kipen, David], Publisher’s Weekly, 253.43
(October 30, 2006), p. 31.
“Thomas Pynchon, Inherent Vice” [Kipen, David], Publisher’s Weekly, 256.27
(July 6, 2009), np.
“Thomas Pynchon, Bleeding Edge” [Kipen, David], Publisher’s Weekly, 260.33
(August, 19 2013), np.
9/11, 10, 54, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 107, 143, 160, 169, Anderson, Paul Thomas
176, 201, 211, 214, 221, 222, 223, 296, 309, Inherent Vice, 12, 337
348, 350, 356, (see World Trade Center Apuleius, 107
attacks) Aquinas, Thomas, 25
Summa Theologica, 25
abject, 90, 107 Arendt, Hannah, 208
Adams, Henry, 106, 283 The Origins of Totalitarianism, 204
The Education of Henry Adams, 283
Attali, Jacques, 146, 147
Adorno, Theodor, 78, 131, 132, 133, 135, 215, 247,
Austen, Jane
249, 251 Pride and Prejudice, 142
aeronautics, 92, 231 authority, 90, 139, 204, 205, 206, 208, 209,
Aether, 83, 240 344
Africa, 10, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 63, 64, 65, 66, 79, 164, Awards
258, 267, 295, 308, (see also South-West Howell’s Medal, 15
Africa)
MacArthur Foundation Fellowship, 9
African American, 57, 59, 60
National Book Award, 9, 10, 319
allegory, 300, 301 Nobel Prize, 1, 2
alternative realities, 236, 294, 307, 328 Pulitzer Prize, 9
alternative reality. (see also multiple worlds) Rosenthal Foundation Award, 9
Althusser, Louis, 205, 249 William Faulkner Foundation’s Award, 9, 15
ambiguity, 67, 101, 166, 262, 275, 298, 301, 302,
303, 304
Baldwin, James, 24
America, 7, 32, 33, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 41, 45, 48, 49, Barthelme, Donald, 9, 11, 16, 23
51, 52, 53, 57, 61, 63, 64, 71, 72, 74, 78, 79, Baudelaire, Charles, 283
82, 84, 90, 91, 93, 99, 109, 115, 118, 120, 122, Beal, M. F., 11
123, 141, 142, 146, 150, 156, 163, 164, 176, Beat, Beat generation, 17, 32, 184, 197, 259
183, 184, 189, 191, 196, 197, 198, 199, 200, Bellow, Saul
211, 219, 220, 221, 222, 234, 241, 242, 259,
Henderson the Rain King, 124
260, 282, 284, 295, 302, 308, 311, 342, 354,
Benjamin, Walter, 249, 256
357, 358, 359, (see also USA) Bergson, Henri, 239, 240, 241
alternative America, 209 Bester, Alfred, 8
American Renaissance, 84, 302 betrayal, 90, 115
Amish, 34 Bloom, Harold, 141
anachronism, 41, 83, 108, 140, 200, 292, 295,
Book-of-the-Month Club, 138
350
books (see also publishing, for Pynchon novels,
analysis, 70, 82, 115, 162, 174, 195, 204, 215, 264, etc. see Pynchon, Thomas)
277, 278, 316, 347 best-sellers, 138
anarchy, anarchism, 52, 62, 64, 70, 76, 83, 99, 116, bibliographical codes, 316, 318
142, 175, 176, 177, 178, 208, 209, 212, 217, book as medium, 154, 316, 323,
218, 219, 220, 221, 223, 255, 265, 326, 341, 324
343, 351
book history, 316
381
382 Index
books (cont.) cinema, 109, 154, 155, 156, 157, 159, 160,
covers (see illustrations), 227, 316, 317, 318, 319, (see also film)
320, 335, 342 German Expressionism, 155
dust jackets, 315, 317, 318 class, 37, 40, 42, 107, 162, 163, 164, 195, 196, 197,
Borges, Jorge Luis, 62, 336 198, 199, 207, 221, 285
Botticelli, Alessandro class struggle, 197
Birth of Venus, 60 cognitive mapping, 291, 293
boys’ adventure fiction, 108, 281, 284, 295, 350 colonialism, colonization, 33, 38, 49, 50, 57, 58, 59,
Bramkamp, Robert 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 71, 72, 77, 78, 79,
Prüfstand 7, 12 105, 135, 163, 175, 195, 197, 203, 204, 207,
Braudel, Fernand, 105 209, 248, 255, 282, 283, 356
Brown, Norman O., 278 communication, 82, 83, 163, 165, 166,
Buchan, John, 108 167, 168, 266, 275, 299, 301, 304, 308, 323,
The Thirty-Nine Steps, 94 326, 330, 351
Buddhism, 57, 62, 65, 254, communitarianism, 307
259, 310 community, 35, 37, 45, 46, 73, 85, 116, 117, 168,
bureaucracy, 205, 326, 347, 349, 355 200, 208, 217, 219, 223, 258, 310
Burroughs, William, 172 alternative communities, 168
Byron, George Gordon, 84 complicity, 78, 176, 200, 258, 326
computer, 93, 94, 101, 122, 158, 159, 166, 167, 168,
Cain, James M. 187, 299, 310, 323, 324, 326, 328, 349
Mildred Pierce, 42 conditioning, 92, 93, 125, 256
California, 10, 11, 16, 31, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, Conrad, Joseph
46, 97, 119, 151, 159, 164, 168, 183, 184, 185, Heart of Darkness, 60, 105, 283
197, 199, 204, 206, 259, 265, 285, 303, 308, consciousness, 44, 53, 215, 277, 278, 301, 324, 326
311, 339, 344 conspiracy theory, 98, 212, 216, 282, 291, 293, 333
California novels, 2, 39, 40, 43, 45, 109, 141, 154, consumer society, consumer culture, 32, 44, 79,
158, 180, 358 138, 141, 143, 152, 177, 185, 197, 259,
Canada, 33, 34 260, 325
canon (literary), canonization, 133, 281, 283, 289, control, 31, 42, 47, 48, 49, 50, 53, 54, 55, 63, 71, 72,
319, 320, 341 73, 90, 93, 94, 95, 99, 101, 104, 116, 123,
capitalism, 25, 35, 36, 37, 38, 44, 53, 54, 82, 83, 90, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 143, 147, 160, 162,
132, 133, 143, 151, 162, 163, 167, 173, 175, 163, 165, 166, 167, 168, 189, 197, 198, 206,
177, 195, 196, 197, 198, 199, 200, 214, 215, 214, 220, 223, 229, 230, 250, 256, 263, 267,
217, 218, 219, 220, 222, 256, 259, 264, 277, 303, 308, 309, 310
283, 290, 325, 354, 356, 359 Cooper, James Fenimore, 84
captivity narratives, 34, 284 co-option, 25, 38, 160, 195, 208, 221, 349
Carnegie Mellon University, 37 Cornell University, 8, 11, 16, 147, 148, 338
Carnegie Steel Company, 36 correspondences, 16, 23, 213, 236, 286, 300, 301,
Carson, Rachel 302, 304, 305
Silent Spring, 191 counterculture, 41, 43, 44, 45, 83, 91, 119, 120, 133,
cause-and-effect, 237 143, 158, 165, 167, 175, 177, 180, 183, 185,
Chabon, Michael, 100, 141 186, 196, 199, 205, 208, 209, 217, 219, 220,
Moonglow, 342 258, 267, 341, 358
Chandler, Raymond, 139 Counterforce, the, 143, 178, 208, 275, 344
chaos, 60, 251, 298 cult, 1, 173, 234, 342
characterization, 173, 302, 303, 326 cybernetics, 166
naming, 131, 133, 302
Cherrycoke, Wicks, 35, 36, 63, 118, 286 de Man, Paul, 132, 301
children, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 121, 128, 143, 170, de Sade, Marquis, 130
199, 312, (see also families) death, 36, 51, 55, 59, 61, 62, 69, 101, 115,
Christianity, 25, 32, 34, 35, 53, 54, 104, 163, 198, 123, 125, 133, 135, 155, 156, 165, 175, 176,
228, 310 181, 189, 192, 193, 213, 228, 244, 256, 257,
Chums of Chance, 37, 97, 119, 120, 131, 195, 219, 258, 262, 263, 264, 265, 266, 267, 268,
231, 240, 243, 244, 284, 295, 296 326, 349
Index 383
decentering, 52, 115, 172, 278, 291, 293, 294, education, 36, 37, 42, 65, 91, 197, 206, 283
295, 343 educational, 285
Deep Web, 38, 101, 169, 213, 214, 296, 299, 329 eighteenth century, 35, 46, 58, 74, 75, 77, 78, 79,
DeepArcher, 38, 101, 165, 169, 193, 195, 210, 213, 108, 110, 134, 135, 204, 219, 234, 237
214, 220, 222, 296, 299, 328, 329 Einstein, Albert, 239, 240, 241, 244
dehumanization, 63, 128, 195, 349 electricity, 36, 74, 75
Deleuze, Gilles, 25, 135, 249, 276, 277, 358 Eliade, Mircea, 104
DeLillo, Don, 215, 338 Eliot, T. S., 17
Falling Man, 98 The Waste Land, 283
Running Dog, 211 Ellison, Ralph, 24
Derrida, Jacques, 67, 226, 228, 229, 230, 231 Invisible Man, 283
detective fiction, 41, 94, 97, 260, 282, 351, Ellul, Jacques
(see also genre) The Technological Society, 206
hardboiled, 139, 140, 180, 282, 295 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 85, 91, 191, 199, 258
noir, 40, 42, 180 “Nature,” 278
political crime writing, 139 empire, 48, 49, 51, 52, 105, 134
determinism, 165, 239, 245, 299 encyclopedism, encyclopedic literature, 2,
Dick, Philip K. 3, 39, 85, 107, 139, 180, 196, 198, 286, 301,
A Scanner Darkly, 184 302, 347
Dickens, Charles, 348 Engdahl, Horace, 2
Dickinson, Emily, 84 Enlightenment, 47, 71, 74, 78, 110, 133, 134, 135,
Didion, Joan, 40 204, 205, 233, 234, 236, 237, 295
digital age, 27, 93, 95, 170 Enlightenment thinking, 34, 74
digital technology, 93, 107, 165, 193, 207 entropy, 165, 207, 212, 225, 304, 357, 358
dime novel, 285, 295, (see also genre) entropy in communication theory, 166
displaced people, 37, 293 thermodynamic entropy, 226
displacement, 110, 291 environment, 71, 168, 190, 191, 192, 193, 255, 299,
dissent, 18, 32, 140, 204, 209 300, 304, 324, 326
diversity, 33, 57, 204, 234 Enzian, 61, 62, 66
Dixon, Jeremiah, 35, 37, 48, 63, 64, 71, 72, 75, 77, epistemology, 71, 226, 273, 281, 291, 305
78, 79, 110, 118, 131, 146, 164, 175, 195, 200, escape, 38, 73, 168, 209, 257, 349
207, 234, 242, 264, 284, 295, 296, 303, espionage, 94, 97, 168, 326
304, 311 estrangement, 119
Dodge, Jim, 9, 23 Europe, 33, 35, 36, 43, 47, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55,
domination, 53, 57, 78, 89, 90, 117, 118, 119, 132, 57, 58, 60, 61, 62, 63, 65, 74, 76, 79, 105,
200, 204, 219, 234, 249, 291 172, 200, 219, 256, 303
Donadio, Candida, 16
Donne, John, 110 families, 36, 40, 91, 99, 100, 101, 102, 115, 116, 117,
Dora slave labor camp, 267 118, 119, 120, 121, 128, 157, 159, 191, 199,
double-coding, 291, 292 268, 310, 312
dream, 24, 34, 39, 40, 44, 70, 104, 110, 118, 206, alternative families, 116, 119
209, 215, 228, 242, 265, 295, 310 fan, 148, 335, 336, 342, 343, 344, 345
Dylan, Bob, 2, 35 Fariña, Richard, 8, 9, 19, 20, 23, 342
dystopia, 101, 217, 220, 222, 223 Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me, 24
fascism, 90, 91, 150, 172, 195, 196, 198, 200, 220,
Eagleton, Terry, 172, 173, 174 258, 359
Earth, 34, 36, 37, 66, 67, 71, 73, 131, fathers, 49, 90, 92, 94, 100, 101, 116, 117, 118, 121,
187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 192, 231, 234, 240, 154, 159, 165, 167, 168, 169, 185, 197, 199,
256, 262, 310 214, 243, 294, 303, 355
Hollow Earth, 295 Faulkner, William, 110
Eco, Umberto, 336 feminism, 124, 127, 132, 351
Foucault’s Pendulum, 138 film, movies, 12, 40, 42, 63, 94, 147, 148, 154,
ecology, 168, 187, 189, 191, 193, 195, 256, 257, 264, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 214, 241,
289, 358, 359 258, 259, 273, 285, 318, 324, 325, 327,
Edison, Thomas, 36, 229 (see also cinema)
384 Index
Fiske, John, 143 hacking, hackers, 90, 91, 94, 143, 168, 169
Fitzgerald, F. Scott, 342 Halfcourt, Yashmeen, 119, 229, 237
Five Towns, 31, 197, (see also Long Island) Hall, Oakley, 23
Ford Foundation, 8, 147 Warlock, 10, 24, 83
Ford, Henry, 36 Harte, Bret, 40
Forster, E. M., 213, 302 Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 84, 85, 302
Foucault, Michel, 49, 106, 133, 203, 205, 249 The House of the Seven Gables, 84
fragmentation, 45, 193, 215, 218, 291, 294, 298 Hemingway, Ernest, 180, 342
framing devices, 19, 59, 99, 115, 118, 132, 276, “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place,” 181
284, 316 Herero, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 104, 175, 258, 259, 267
Franklin, Benjamin, 25, 34, 74, 75, 196, 197, 205 Hernández, José, 62, 63
free indirect discourse, 277, 278 high culture, 138, 142, 157
freedom, 26, 31, 38, 44, 51, 55, 66, 76, 90, historiographic metafiction, 69, 98, 174, 281, 283,
95, 116, 118, 140, 142, 160, 165, 195, 200, 285, 301, (see also historical fiction;
206, 214, 223, 237, 242, 292, 299, 304, 309, metafiction)
326, 349 history, 37, 38, 39, 41, 42, 47, 48, 49, 50, 52, 53, 55,
Freud, Sigmund, 130, 131, 155, 250 57, 58, 59, 62, 72, 97, 104, 105, 106, 107,
frontier, 31, 38, 46, 78, 83, 165 109, 110, 115, 118, 174, 176, 200, 213, 222,
Frye, Northrop, 106 239, 241, 242, 256, 267, 283, 284, 285, 286,
Fukuyama, Francis, 104 292, 294, 344, 349, 350, 357
Annales school, 105
Galileo Galilei, 236 historical fiction, 10, 82, 107, 277, 279
Garfield, John, 143 historiography, 34, 105, 106, 108, 110, 139, 267,
Gary, Romain, 10, 15, 19 284, 286
Gates, Frenesi, 44, 90, 91, 127, 160, 168, 205, 208, metahistory, 106, 110
241, 303, 326, 328 Holocaust, 59, 107, 176
gender, 122, 123, 124, 126, 127, 128, 289 homosexuality, 107, 293
General Electric, 36, 198 Horkheimer, Max, 78, 131, 132, 133, 135
Genette, Gérard, 273, 315, 316, 319 humor, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 262, 343, 349, 350
genocide, 53, 58, 59, 61, 105, 175, 203 black humor, 131, 135, 289
genre, literary, 34, 40, 69, 83, 84, 97, 98, 104, levity/gravity, 131, 133, 134, 135
108, 110, 133, 138, 139, 140, 174, 218, Hutcheon, Linda, 174, 176, 301
266, 281, 282, 283, 284, 285, 286, 295, Hutchinson, Anne, 32
302, 326, 350, (see also detective fiction;
dime novel; noir; science fiction; romance; identity, 31, 32, 49, 60, 72, 73, 101, 132, 172, 173,
spy fiction) 213, 291
gentrification, 37 ideology, 24, 27, 37, 43, 68, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 120,
geometry, 227, 234, 236, 239 135, 157, 198, 204, 205, 207, 263, 279, 281,
ghost, specter, spirit, 128, 133, 221, 262, 265, 266, 283, 284, 285, 349
267, 328, 350 IG Farben, 54, 198, 263, 264, 325
Gilded Age, 82 illustrations, 27, 315, 317
Ginsberg, Allen, 19 incredulity, 106, 290, 292, 294, 295
“Howl,” 17 indeterminacy, 173, 216, 226, 244, 274, 275, 292
Gödel, Kurt, 241 individualism, 45, 267, 302, 303
Godwin, William, 76, 219 information, 68, 77, 165, 166, 167, 169, 193, 208,
Enquiry Concerning Political Justice, 75, 76 266, 304, 325
Göring, Hermann, 142 Internet, the, 37, 101, 107, 140, 143, 154, 159, 160,
government, 37, 38, 44, 48, 64, 75, 76, 77, 78, 80, 162, 165, 166, 167, 195, 207, 210, 213, 219,
99, 101, 107, 126, 143, 165, 166, 168, 177, 220, 222, 223, 230, 309
191, 195, 219, 220, 221, 309 intertextuality, 308
government repression, 221 invention, 67, 69, 120, 228, 229, 230
Graves, Robert, 106 investigation, 97, 119, 139, 184, 214, 282, 299, 328
The White Goddess, 283 criminal investigation, 119
Guattari, Félix, 135, 249, 276, 277 irony, 58, 101, 102, 105, 174, 176, 264, 290, 295,
Gutenberg, 323 350, 354
Index 385
Jackson, Melanie, 11, 16 mapping, 48, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71
James, Henry, 84, 341 Marcuse, Herbert, 196, 205, 208, 210
James, William, 91, 239, 242 One-Dimensional Man, 205
Jameson, Fredric, 140, 172, 173, 196, 290, 293 Marlowe, Philip, 139
Jesuits, 34, 48, 54, 168 Márquez, Gabriel García, 23, 336
John Larroquette Show, The, 138 Love in the Time of Cholera, 58
Jones, Spike, 9, 23, 24 Marx, Karl, 59, 70
Joyce, James, 1, 274, 275, 320, 336 Maryland, 34, 48, 71, 72, 75, 77, 234
masculinity, 101, 123, 126, 127, 140, 156
Kafka, Franz, 320 Mason, Charles, 35, 37, 48, 63, 64, 68, 71, 72, 75,
Kakutani, Michiko, 141 77, 78, 79, 110, 118, 131, 146, 164, 175, 195,
Kant, Immanuel, 230 200, 207, 226, 234, 242, 264, 265, 284,
Kennedy, Jack, 62 295, 296, 303, 304
Kesey, Ken, 42 Mason, Rebekah, 118, 265
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, 122 Mason-Dixon Line, 11, 33, 48, 109, 175, 219
King, Stephen Massachusetts Bay Colony, 7, 32
The Dark Half, 138 materialism, 195
Kracauer, Siegfried, 155, 156 materiality, 316, 317
Kuhn, Thomas materialist hermeneutics, 316
The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, 110, (see mathematics, 68, 110, 230, 233, 234, 235, 236,
also paradigm shift) 237, 250
Maxwell, James Clerk, 226, 227
Lacan, Jacques, 250, 251, 357 McCarthy, Cormac
Lang, Fritz, 155 Blood Meridian, 285
Larsson, Stieg, 139 McEwan, Ian, 15, 23
Latin America, 57, 58, 60, 61, 62, 64, 65, 66, 201 Atonement, 10
layering, 49, 309, 310, 329 McLuhan, Marshall, 167
Leary, Timothy, 178, 180, 181 mediation, 188, 282, 283, 285
Levine, George, 218 medium, 34, 63, 67, 139, 140, 147, 154, 157, 158,
Lewis, Wyndham, 131 159, 160, 240, 273, 284, 316
liberal humanism, 303 Melville, Herman, 1, 85, 86, 87
libertarianism, 43, 125 “Bartleby the Scrivener,” 25, 86, 87
Lincoln Center, the, 37, 142 Moby-Dick, 85, 302
Linneaus, Carolus, 75 Pierre, 86
Lippincott, J. B., 15, 19 Typee, 87
Long Island, 8, 31, 36, 37, 197, (see also Five Towns) Menippean satire, 107, 267, 285, 286, 301,
Long Island Sound, 36 (see satire)
Luddism, Luddite, 9, 26, 84, 89, 134, 167, 192, 196, Merleau-Ponty, Maurice, 215
359, (see also Pynchon, Thomas, “Is It metafiction, metanarrative, 86, 97, 102, 106, 107,
O.K. to Be a Luddite?”) 213, 235, 284, 299, 302, 357
Lugones, Leopoldo, 62, 63 metaphysics, 69, 116, 208, 215, 266
Lyotard, Jean-François, 107 Mexico, 10, 17, 52, 64, 65
lyrics, 12, 147, 148, 149, 150 (see song lyrics) Mexico, Roger, 69, 95, 131, 226
military-industrial complex, 143, 198, 256, 312
Maas, Oedipa, 31, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 58, 93, 95, Miller, Henry, 205
99, 100, 101, 116, 117, 120, 124, 130, 131, 132, Mills, C. Wright
133, 140, 152, 158, 162, 165, 169, 180, 181, The Power Elite, 204
183, 188, 197, 198, 205, 206, 209, 212, 241, Minkowski, Hermann, 239, 240, 241, 244
260, 264, 299, 300, 302, 303, 304, 308, modernism, 105, 131, 218, 239, 290, 291, 294,
329, 351 325, 327
Machiavelli modernity, 73, 196, 268, 283, 285, 286
The Prince, 60 Montauk, 328
malls, 149 Moody, Rick, 148
Manhattan, 11, 36, 37, 100, 195, 222, (see also morality, 35, 64, 98, 99, 100, 124, 126, 127, 128,
New York) 164, 183, 198, 230, 268, 300, 302
386 Index
More, Thomas Norfolk, VA, 31
Utopia, 341 nostalgia, 59, 90, 97, 175, 177, 240, 358
Morgan, J. P., 36
Morrison, Toni, 2, 27, 320 ontology, 184, 247, 255, 258, 262, 265, 267, 278,
mothers, 99, 115, 117, 118, 121, 122, 168, 312, 328 292, 294, 295, 296, 307
multiplicity, 67, 68, 69, 71, 218, 292, 293, 358 oppression, 32, 43, 45, 53, 76, 79, 122, 124,
multiple worlds, 234, 242, (see also alternative 139, 159, 168, 172, 182, 249, 255, 256, 257,
realities) 258, 259, 277
Mumford, Lewis, 167 Orbison, Roy, 150
The Pentagon of Power, 207 order, 32, 37, 38, 52, 62, 72, 206, 209, 210, 218, 241,
music, 12, 43, 44, 140, 142, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 276, 298, 357
151, 152, 155, 173, 181, 293 social order, 32, 120, 135
mysticism, 260 Orwell, George, 9, 23, 43, 90, 91, 93, 104, 156, 159,
mythology, 197 160, 169
Nineteen Eighty-Four, 89, 92, 167, 220, (see also
Nabokov, Vladimir Pynchon, Thomas, “Foreword”)
Lolita, 8 Other, othering, 227, 230, 254
narrative/narration, 25, 35, 47, 48, 49, 59, ownership, 35, 36, 37, 50, 72, 77, 78, 162, 163, 354,
60, 62, 64, 67, 68, 99, 102, 106, 107, (see also capitalist ownership)
108, 118, 119, 132, 139, 148, 149, 150, 154,
157, 158, 160, 172, 174, 175, 178, 184, 187, Paine, Thomas
193, 197, 212, 215, 218, 239, 241, 243, 250, Common Sense, 76
260, 262, 273, 274, 275, 276, 277, 278, The Age of Reason, 75, 76
279, 282, 284, 290, 292, 294, 295, 296, parable, 41, 64, 227, 256, 299, 300, 301
298, 299, 300, 301, 302, 303, 304, 324, 325, paradigm shift, 110, (see also Kuhn, Thomas)
326, 327, 329, 349, 355, 356, 358 parageography, 68, 69
heteroglossic narrative, 356 paranoia, 35, 40, 94, 122, 197, 212, 213, 214, 216,
narrative embedding, 276 256, 282, 293, 304, 307, 309, 312, 348, 357
narrative oscillation, 284 paratexts, 315, 316, 317, 318, 319
narrative perspective, 298 parents, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 170,
narrative voice, 43, 226, 356 (see mothers; fathers)
second-person narration, 275, 278 parody, 60, 86, 97, 108, 174, 181, 251, 281, 284, 294
narratology, 273, 274, 276, 277, pastiche, 108, 147, 174, 350, 351
278, 279 Patterson, James, 139
nation, 31, 50, 53, 73, 82, 89, 169, 196, 200, Pavlov, Ivan Petrovich, 89, 92, 93, 110, 125, 256
292, 295 Perry, Alex Ross
Native American, 33, 35, 48, 62, 72, Impolex, 12
78, 164, 310 personification, 49, 302
nature, 74, 75, 76, 78, 164, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, perspective, 59, 64, 65, 69, 70, 83, 99, 106, 158,
192, 233, 263, 264 176, 191, 200, 216, 217, 237, 241, 242, 243,
neoliberalism, 37, 175, 200, 201, 326, 327 273, 274, 311, 325, 347 (see narrative)
New England, 7, 8, 33, 35, 209 Petronius
New England Congregationalists, 32, 33, Satyricon, 107
(see Puritans) philosophy, 24, 178, 239, 247, 248, 250, 251, 282,
New Haven, CT, 36 308, 357
New York, NY, 8, 11, 16, 31, 37, 38, 49, 59, 60, 94, plot, 40, 41, 47, 84, 94, 97, 108, 109, 110, 121, 138,
107, 140, 141, 142, 143, 164, 169, 197, 201, 139, 184, 213, 215, 262, 302, 317, 343, 346,
214, 221, 285, 308, 312, 326, 359 348, 349, 357
Newton, Isaac, 110, 226, 227, 233, 237, 239, 242, Poe, Edgar Allen, 84, 110
243, 299 Pointsman, Edward, 125, 126, 206, 242, 302
nineteenth century, 35, 58, 82, 85, 134, 190, 192, Pökler, Franz, 117, 154, 294, 325
235, 236, 239, 240, 266 politics, 11, 24, 32, 35, 42, 49, 72, 134, 172,
Nixon, Richard, 43, 91, 152, 156, 159, 182, 174, 178, 190, 208, 209, 215, 217, 218, 219,
183, 220 220, 249, 251, 254, 258, 260, 281, 282, 283,
noir, 40, 42, 180, (see also genre; detective fiction) 307, 354, 357
Index 387
pop culture, popular culture, 45, 134, 138, 139, 140, “Under the Rose,” 93, 109
141, 142, 143, 144, 282, 286, 293, 350 “Words for Salman Rushdie,” 23
portals, 338 Against the Day, 2, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 47, 51,
possibility, 48, 220, 222, 230, 237, 241, 242, 264, 52, 54, 55, 64, 65, 68, 82, 83, 97, 104, 108,
275, 278, 282, 293 109, 118, 119, 123, 128, 139, 154, 163, 168,
postcolonialism, 110 175, 176, 177, 192, 195, 199, 200, 203, 205,
postmodernism, 67, 172, 173, 174, 215, 255, 289, 208, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 226, 228, 229,
290, 291, 293, 296, 301 230, 231, 233, 234, 235, 237, 239, 240, 241,
postmodernist fiction, 184, 292 243, 244, 265, 266, 267, 273, 278, 281, 284,
Pynchon as postmodernist, 67, 218, 289, 290, 295, 303, 309, 310, 311, 312, 341, 346,
296, 302, 347, 357 351, 359
postmodernity, 107, 138, 237 Bleeding Edge, 37, 54, 94, 95, 97, 98, 101, 107,
poststructuralism, 67, 68, 357 119, 125, 126, 127, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143,
power, 31, 36, 37, 38, 41, 43, 44, 46, 47, 50, 51, 52, 146, 154, 159, 160, 162, 164, 165, 168, 169,
55, 71, 72, 73, 90, 91, 92, 93, 119, 120, 125, 192, 195, 201, 207, 208, 210, 213, 219, 220,
126, 127, 128, 133, 146, 147, 151, 152, 155, 221, 222, 223, 228, 239, 244, 250, 251, 279,
157, 163, 165, 167, 168, 175, 176, 178, 181, 282, 295, 296, 299, 300, 301, 303, 309, 311,
185, 196, 197, 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 312, 323, 326, 327, 328, 329, 351, 354,
209, 210, 216, 219, 220, 237, 249, 254, 257, 356, 359
258, 263, 283, 303, 308, 310, 312, 354 Gravity’s Rainbow, 2, 9, 12, 24, 32, 33, 35, 39, 43,
preterition, 33, 43, 50, 52, 66, 85, 109, 198, 209, 50, 51, 54, 55, 61, 62, 65, 68, 69, 70, 92, 93,
212, 223, 256, 257, 258, 260, 311 107, 110, 115, 117, 124, 125, 126, 139, 142,
Profane, Benny, 8, 37, 49, 60, 123, 127, 154, 197, 149, 150, 152, 154, 156, 163, 166, 172, 175,
199, 208, 302 178, 184, 185, 186, 188, 189, 190, 198, 203,
progress, 74, 75, 76, 77, 79, 172, 204, 219, 234, 257, 204, 205, 206, 207, 209, 210, 212, 218, 221,
263, 264, 290, 292, 294 226, 228, 230, 231, 234, 235, 239, 241, 242,
prose style, 141 249, 250, 256, 257, 262, 263, 266, 274, 275,
protest, 10, 60, 165, 167, 176, 177, 183 276, 277, 278, 285, 286, 289, 290, 292, 293,
Psi section, 266 294, 295, 300, 302, 303, 308, 309, 315, 316,
psychedelic movement, 177, 178 317, 318, 319, 320, 323, 325, 327, 344, 346,
psychoanalysis, 18, 250 355, 357, 359
publishing, publishers, 1, 2, 8, 9, 11, 15, 26, 43, 44, Inherent Vice, 7, 11, 12, 39, 40, 41, 44, 45, 95, 97,
54, 93, 97, 109, 176, 201, 221, 229, 236, 289, 119, 139, 143, 154, 158, 164, 168, 177, 180,
315, 319, 320, 323, 330 182, 183, 193, 200, 201, 208, 219, 244, 279,
Puccini, Giacomo 282, 303, 309, 310, 311, 312, 351, 358
Manon Lescaut, 17 juvenilia, 15
Pudding, Brigadier, 108, 125, 126 letters, 10, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 333
Puritans, 7, 8, 62, 198, 282, 302 Mason & Dixon, 2, 11, 33, 34, 35, 36, 38, 46, 48,
Pynchon, Thomas 54, 63, 68, 69, 71, 72, 74, 75, 78, 79, 98,
“The Boys,” 18 104, 108, 109, 110, 118, 128, 134, 135, 140,
“Entropy,” 8, 165, 166, 225, 226, 300, 304, 357 146, 154, 163, 164, 168, 175, 180, 188, 190,
“Foreword” in George Orwell, Nineteen 200, 203, 204, 205, 207, 219, 226, 227,
Eighty-Four, 220, 221 228, 230, 231, 234, 239, 242, 243, 265, 266,
“The Heart’s Eternal Vow,” 58 279, 283, 284, 286, 295, 296, 303, 308, 311,
“Is It O.K. to Be a Luddite?”, 23, 24, 74, 83, 89, 315, 347, 358
133, 167, 192, 196 Slow Learner, 23, 24, 89, 116, 154, 167, 225
“A Journey Into The Mind of Watts,” 23, 24, introduction, 9, 31, 89, 94, 133, 220, 231, 281
42, 57, 187, 341, 344 The Crying of Lot 49, 31, 39, 58, 68, 93, 95, 99,
“Low-lands,” 8, 166, 192 109, 116, 130, 140, 141, 148, 152, 154, 158,
“Minstrel Island,” 8, 17, 18, 122, 123, 127, 166 162, 164, 166, 180, 184, 189, 197, 203, 204,
“Mortality and Mercy in Vienna,” 8, 9, 264 206, 209, 210, 212, 217, 226, 241, 260, 282,
“Nearer, My Couch, to Thee,” 23, 24, 26, 283, 285, 289, 294, 299, 300, 308, 309, 329,
86, 196 348, 351, 357, 358
“The Secret Integration,” 9, 116, 343, 355, 356 V., 8, 9, 19, 24, 31, 32, 48, 49, 51, 54, 57, 58, 59,
“The Small Rain,” 8 60, 61, 68, 85, 105, 106, 107, 108, 116, 123,
388 Index
Pynchon, Thomas (cont.) revolution, 27, 44, 87, 130, 177, 183, 197, 218, 220,
124, 127, 139, 140, 154, 163, 173, 175, 184, 258, 267, 326, 344
188, 189, 190, 197, 203, 204, 207, 221, 225, Rilke, Rainer Maria, 155
231, 239, 241, 247, 248, 273, 283, 285, 289, rocket, 12, 50, 62, 69, 117, 166, 183, 189, 190, 205,
294, 300, 315, 348, 350, 351, 357 207, 227, 228, 230, 231, 235, 256, 257, 258,
Vineland, 11, 39, 40, 43, 44, 45, 51, 54, 90, 91, 92, 262, 263, 302, 304, 325, (see also V-2)
95, 97, 115, 117, 118, 124, 130, 141, 143, 150, Rodriguez, Richard, 39
151, 152, 154, 157, 158, 159, 160, 168, 175, romance, 106, 282, 295, 302, (see also genre)
177, 180, 181, 183, 185, 188, 193, 199, 203, Roosevelt, Franklin D., 206, 355, 356
205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 219, 220, Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 76
239, 241, 242, 243, 248, 249, 254, 258, 259, Émile, 76
265, 268, 295, 308, 309, 312, 317, 326, 328, The Social Contract, 75
357, 358, 359 routinization, 222, 303
Pynchon, William Rushdie, Salman, 15, 23, 82
The Meritorious Price of Our Redemption, 7, 32 The Satanic Verses, 10
Ruskin, John, 105
Quakers (Society of Friends), 34
Quaternions, 55, 226, 231, 234, 235, 236 Sachsa, Peter, 264
quest, 31, 40, 48, 49, 143, 184, 213, 225, 226, 247, sadomasochism, 155, 357
260, 282, 291, 299, 302, 303, 304 Sale, Faith, 10, 19, 20, 315
Sale, Kirkpatrick, 8, 10, 16, 19, 20, 24
Rabelais, François Salinger, J. D, 7
Gargantua et Pantagruel, 107 satire, 106, 139, 197, 289
race, 57, 59, 61, 62, 64, 104, 107, 156, 169 Menippean satire, 107, 267, 285, 286, 301
racism, 207, 255 Saunders, George, 57
randomness, 214, 239, 263 Saussure, Ferdinand de, 67
Rathenau, Walter, 198, 206, 241, 264 Schopenhauer, Arthur, 132, 133, 134
rationalism, 34, 69, 78, 195, 228, 234, 235, 236, 299, science, 34, 74, 76, 77, 78, 110, 115, 206, 207, 225,
349, 358 226, 227, 229, 230, 231, 233, 234, 236, 240,
reader, 7, 20, 24, 38, 47, 69, 83, 106, 107, 115, 120, 243, 347, 356, 357
150, 156, 178, 189, 213, 250, 275, 276, 277, science fiction, 8, 121, 147, 237, 347, (see also genre)
281, 284, 292, 298, 300, 303, 304, 307, 317, séance, 198, 241, 263, 264, 266
318, 319, 323, 326, 342, 357 Seattle, 9, 17, 41, 184
external reader, 298, 299, 300, 303, 304 self, 132, 266, 291
implied reader, 225 sexuality, sex, sexual roles, 35, 58, 59, 64, 70, 107,
Reagan, Ronald, 91, 159, 175, 182, 205, 206, 220 117, 122, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 140, 175,
real estate, 37, 41, 42, 43, 44, 50, 140, 162, 163, 164, 176, 190, 256, 285, 289, 293, 326
169, 195, 197, 201, 296, 308, 354, 356 Shambhala, 226
realism (in literature), 24, 40, 133, 134, 302, 327 Shelley, Mary
redemption, 45, 188, 267, 298 Frankenstein, 61, 83
Reed, Ishmael, 172, 276, 292 Shetzline, David, 11
relativity, 110, 239, 240, 241, 243, 244 Siegel, Jules, 8, 16, 23, 183, 333
religion, 34, 133, 180, 204, 209, 254, 255, 257, 258, Simpsons, The, 7, 85, 86, 138
259, 260, 310 simulation, 159, 291, 294, 295, 296
representation, 39, 45, 47, 51, 60, 63, 67, 68, 69, Sinclair, Upton, 344
70, 83, 117, 124, 127, 130, 155, 173, 174, 237, sixties, 39, 41, 43, 90, 97, 109, 119, 139, 143, 177,
250, 263, 273, 276, 301, 324 180, 184, 185, 186, 198, 204, 205, 206, 218,
resistance, 35, 45, 46, 52, 72, 73, 84, 118, 126, 127, 219, 220, 326
128, 134, 142, 143, 147, 152, 162, 165, 168, slavery, 63, 64, 79, 135, 175, 200, 308, 311
175, 191, 192, 193, 196, 208, 211, 217, 218, sloth, 9, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 86, 87, 196, (see also
219, 220, 221, 223, 234, 247, 255, 257, 258, Pynchon, Thomas, “Nearer, My Couch,
259, 305, 349 to Thee”)
responsibility, 101, 124, 205, 206, 207, 284 Slothrop, Tyrone, 8, 32, 36, 50, 51, 52, 62, 63, 66,
revenge tale, 118 70, 92, 93, 117, 154, 156, 183, 184, 188, 190,
Index 389
191, 192, 204, 206, 209, 256, 263, 293, 295, terror, terrorism, 38, 83, 101, 169, 203, 204, 217,
300, 302, 309, 310, 355, 356 220, 221, 222, 223
Smith, Adam, 79 Tesla, Nikola, 36, 55, 82, 83, 168, 228, 229, 230
Smith, Corlies, 19, 338 Thoreau, Henry David, 188
Society of Friends, 34, (see Quakers) time machine, 243, 244
song lyrics, 148, 149, 150, 293 time travel, 239, 240, 243, 244, 245
songs, 130, 138, 147, 148, 149, 174, 181, 295 Todorov, Tzvetan, 273
sound, 146, 148, 151, 181, 329 totalitarianism, 104, 128, 208, 215
background sound, 148, 149, 151 totality, 196, 215, 230, 251, 290, 291
soundtrack, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 158 tragedy, 106, 308
South-West Africa, 16, 58, 59, 60, 61, 65, 66, 105, transcendence, 215, 295, 299, 311
175, 204, 308 transgression, 72, 124, 125, 128, 284
spacetime, 239, 241, 245 trauma, 98, 99, 101, 131, 135, 327
spatial turn, 291, 293, 295 Traverse family, 36, 38, 118, 131, 199, 310, 312
spatiality, 48, 244, 245, 291, 293, 356 Frank Traverse, 64, 190, 265
Sphere, McClintic, 59, 87, 142 Webb Traverse, 36, 64, 199, 265, 302
spirituality, spiritualism, 34, 70, 198, 205, 208, Trump, Donald, 169, 211, 213, 354, 355, 356
212, 256, 259, 262, 266, 289, 300, 307, 308, Trystero, 109, 183, 197
309, 311 Turner, Frederick Jackson, 38, 83
Sportello, Doc, 40, 97, 119, 139, 140, 143, 150, 158, Twain, Mark, 40
159, 164, 165, 168, 177, 182, 183, 184, 185, A Tale of To-Day, 82
193, 201, 219, 220, 244, 295, 303, 309 twentieth century, 53, 64, 67, 95, 99, 100, 104,
Springfield. (see also Agawam, Connecticut Colony 106, 108, 140, 150, 151, 163, 173, 184, 190,
and Massachusetts Bay Colony) 196, 240, 248, 263, 285
Springfield, MA, 7 twenty-first century, 2, 97, 98, 99, 101, 102, 162,
spy fiction, 83, 92, 94, 95, 139, 285, 295, 350, 351, 163, 201, 219, 221, 222, 237
(see also genre) typography, 318
state, 35, 39, 44, 45, 47, 48, 51, 52, 53, 73, 89, 90, 91,
186, 196, 198, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 217, USA, 35, 36, 38, 48, 52, 54, 55, 59, 62, 72, 120, 167,
221, 222, 303, 325 172, 175, 177, 211, 217, 221, 222, 259, 285,
Steinbeck, John, 344 319, 354
Stencil, Herbert, 31, 49, 116, 154, 204, 260, 300, underground, 32, 90, 91, 92, 165, 208, 212, 267,
302, 303 293, 294, 308, 329
Stevenson, Robert Louis, 83 Updike, John, 26
Stowe, Harriet Beecher, 344 Rabbit Run, 124
subjunctive, 33, 46, 48, 190, 295, 296, 358 utopia, utopianism, 143, 158, 201, 217,
subversion, 73, 133, 147, 152, 230, 251, 274, 275, 305 219, 220, 222, 223, 249, 286, 293, 307,
surveillance, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 156, 160, 341, 344
206, 214, 220, 221, 222, 223, 326
symbolism, 300 V. (character), 31, 49, 50, 116, 123, 231, 260,
294, 308
Tarnow, Maxine, 38, 94, 95, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, V-2, 50, 54, 69, 70, 92, 185, 205, 256, 263, (see also
102, 119, 120, 125, 126, 127, 128, 131, 139, rocket)
140, 143, 159, 160, 162, 164, 165, 168, 169, Vibe, Scarsdale, 36, 118, 163, 199, 200, 205, 221,
192, 193, 196, 201, 214, 222, 228, 244, 296, 302, 354
299, 300, 303, 326, 327, 328, 329, 351 video, 7, 12, 94, 133, 158, 160, 214, 337
technology, 23, 26, 50, 51, 63, 75, 95, 160, 167, 168, violence, 34, 37, 78, 90, 94, 101, 118, 124, 125, 128,
192, 193, 206, 207, 223, 225, 226, 227, 229, 135, 175, 187, 204, 207, 221, 222, 223, 245,
230, 231, 234, 258, 263, 264, 266, 283, 256, 262, 285, 308
347, 357 Virginia, 31, 33, 77, 143
television/the Tube, 25, 98, 138, 140, 141, 147, 154, virtual reality, virtual world, 25, 101, 143, 158, 162,
157, 158, 159, 160, 181, 185, 207, 208, 291, 169, 187, 193, 195, 201, 291, 296, 309
295, 327 voice, 43, 99, 152, 226, 266, 274, 281, 292, 293, 356
temporality, 3, 108, 109, 243, 275, 298, 332, 356 (see narrative)
390 Index
von Trotha, Lothar (General), 58, 59, 61, 62, Wells, H. G., 243, 244, 245
105, 176 The Time Machine, 239, 240
Vond, Brock, 42, 91, 158, 175, 182, 200, 205, 265, West, Nathanael, 131
268, 302, 344 West, the, 34, 45, 48, 61, 72, 83, 231, 290, 295
Wheeler, Zoyd, 92, 117, 127, 157, 168, 177, 180, 183,
Wagner, Richard, 155 199, 243, 259, 309
Wallace, David Foster, 140, 141, 290 White, Hayden
Infinite Jest, 19 Metahistory, 106
war, 50, 51, 52, 53, 63, 203, 205, 206, 207, 209, 221, Wiener, Norbert
325, 357 The Human Use of Human Beings, 166
Civil War, 48, 82, 109 Winthrop, John, 32
Cold War, 49, 51, 54, 204, 214, 222, 284, 290 Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 248, 282
Vietnam War, 54, 198, 221 Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 248
war on drugs, 203 women, 49, 70, 76, 100, 123, 125, 126, 127, 176,
World War I, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 58, 65, 97, 221, 325, 351
234, 284, 348 Woolf, Virginia, 131
World War II, 10, 35, 41, 49, 50, 52, 54, 59, 107, To the Lighthouse, 143
166, 173, 175, 203, 209, 218, 220, 221, 284, World Trade Center attacks, 38, 98
285, 290, 308, 325, 359
Washington, George, 36, 118, 180, 200 Zigotisopolis, 143, 169
Weber, Max, 134, 198, 205 Zone, the, 36, 51, 52, 62, 66, 70, 71, 72, 73, 92, 115,
Weissmann, 61, 62, 175, 248, 249 154, 185, 198, 218, 292, 293
Blicero, Dominus, 61, 117, 175, 185, 200, 204, Zuñiga, Hector, 90, 92, 157,
205, 248, 249, 257, 258, 302 158, 182, 295