The first Pynchon book that I read was V. I still remember how enthralled I was with its exotic locations and explosion of ideas. What a wonderful book it was for a young man who was just starting to explore the world! I quickly sought out The Crying of Lot 49 and then Gravity’s Rainbow. A few years later I read all three of those again. Then Vineland. Then Mason & Dixon. Then Inherent Vice. Then Mason & Dixon again.
That’s a lot of Pynchon work, and as you may know, Pynchon work is hard. The novels are usually long and there are dozens of characters. The language is densely imagistic. The characters and their experiences are exotic; the stories are intense, filled with foreboding, danger and suspense. And though each story has conflict and narrative drive, the novel jumps from one semi self-contained episode to the next. Once one scene ends, the novel shifts to another, one with a different focus, set in a different time and place, possibly with a wildly different tone. They all seem to be related–very much so–but the relations are unclear and shifting. It’s hard to keep track.
But that’s because there is no track, or rather, there is and there isn’t. When a new episode begins, introducing an almost entirely new character with a new set of problems beginning in a time six years before the episode you just finished, it can be frustrating. You might ask “Why do I have to wade though this? What about my favorite character? What about the main story?” For example, at around page 400 of Gravity’s Rainbow Pynchon begins a 40-page section about a character named Franz Pokler, someone the reader hasn’t really met before and perhaps won’t ever see much of again. So, I’m thinking, “Oh god, here’s yet another digression. It’s like Lucy pulling the football away from Charlie Brown. I can’t stand it.” But the thing is, if you push ahead, you find out that Franz Pokler’s story is fascinating. Is it connected to other parts of the novel? Yes, but does that connection constitute it’s real importance? Not for Franz. For Franz, his story matters most. At this point in the novel, at this moment of reading, it becomes that way for the reader as well.
And as if the density and the discontinuity weren‘t enough, Pynchon occasionally interjects passages of closely described natural scenes that evoke strong emotional states but which make little reference to any characters at all. Are these hard to plow through? Oh yeah. On the other hand, Pynchon also throws some wild parties, filled with slap-stick drama, hair’s breadth escapes and trenchant dialog. Gravity’s Rainbow, especially, just explodes with voices.
In some novels it makes sense to speak of character development, to think about how a character’s complexity is revealed as the story progresses. The main protagonist in Gravity’s Rainbow, the person we are most likely to identify with, is Tyrone Slothrop. We hear a lot about him and we spend a lot of time seeing things from his point of view. We can’t help hoping that somehow things will come out well for him. But alas! Gravity’s Rainbow is actually a 760-page exegesis of how it is that Tyrone comes to be less and less present, less and less real. Tyrone gradually becomes a nebulous mist and fades away. Some readers might find that frustrating at first. I know I did. But then I came to understand it. Becoming less and less real is all any of us do, really. It’s kind of tragic, but also it’s hilarious.
I don’t often remember particular lines or passages from the books I read. But from Gravity’s Rainbow there are two things that have stayed with me from the very first reading. The first one is this:
Personal density is directly proportional to temporal bandwidth.
I take this to mean that the more you remember your past and the more you foresee of your future, the more substantial you are. We hear a lot about learning to live in the now, that all the rest is illusion and distraction. The suggestion is that living in the now is the pure essence of being. Pynchon reminds us, though, that purity is transparent. If you achieve it, there’s really no you there anymore. (Nothing to see here, folks, just move along.)
And then there’s this, which has been one of my prime operating principles ever since I first read it all those years ago:
Q: Then what about all the others? Boston? London? The ones who live in cities. Are those people real, or what?
A: Some are real, and some aren’t.
Q: Well are the real ones necessary? or unnecessary?
A: It depends on what you have in mind.
Q: Shit, I don’t have anything in mind.
A: We do.
One reason I like this is that I’m pretty sure I don’t ultimately have anything in mind. In one sense, that’s my trouble.