Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon

Arbitrary review score: 98%

Ever since man descended from trees and went bipedal, generation after generation has watched Earth wildly become a more strange greenhouse. A book like this seems to reaffirm that with a dozens of graphic representations of sex acts you probably couldn’t guess, asides idiosyncratic and innumerable, and The Rocket—more specifically the V2, the world’s first ballistic missile. It’s launched from various sites in the crumbling Third Reich, it reaches its brennschluss over the North Sea, and it careens down onto London, supersonic by will of gravity only.

Beneath the nose of said rocket, in pre-VE day London, at the height of the blitz, is American GI Tyrone Slothrop. Tyrone sleeps around with dozens of iterations on the “English Rose” and tacks every encounter on a map of greater London. Turns out that map is identical to the Allies’ map of V2 strikes, preceding it by 3-5 days. From here things go haywire with the hijinks of, for my money, greater than 150 characters. Government agencies try to capitalize on Tyrone’s perceived gift for influencing the rocket; Tyrone tries to high-tail it away from the powers that be. The bulk of the book takes place in The Zone, Pynchon’s idea of a wrecked continental Europe after the war. It’s a place where anything can happen, from hot air balloon pie fights to a Truman cameo during a reefer run into Soviet Berlin.

While the amorphous plot, and the myriad diversions from it, are a lot of fun and certainly worthwhile on their own, the writing itself makes the experience wholly unique and unforgettable. Sentences can run-on at length, twisting every possible way, ultimately ending at some place completely unexpected. In the span of one sentence, you can shift from one person’s thoughts to another’s. Time and space are matters unrelated to the swerving of Pynchon’s sentences. For these reasons, the book carries with it the notion of “impenetrability”—let’s call it the put down factor. Begin to lose track and the book quickly loses you. In my experience with the novel, the secret to cracking the code was devoting 100% of my attention to it. Try to read on a train or bus and, unless you’re trying real hard, Ringo, you’re likely going to lose track of what’s going on. This all being said, about 30 odd pages were still Greek to me.

The resounding theme—aside from paranoia—is the preterite versus the elect. It’s funny how this dichotomy is blurred in the writing: one paragraph (hell, sentence) can hold highbrow allusions to virtually anything, and then end on a fart joke or something equally lowbrow. But who really cares about themes when you’re reading GR? I certainly don’t. I’m there to be amazed by an imagination so incomprehensibly more imaginative than mine. Not to mention the writing style. Really like that too.

From what I’ve read the common knock on P is that  his characters are one-dimensional cardboard cutouts that rarely inspire a connection with the reader. After 760 pages of loosely following Tyrone Slothrop through one impossible situation after another, I did care what happened. A bit. But I imagine that I’m predisposed to not easily making connections with fictitious characters, owing to my general lack of empathy. Either way, this is a really fun book. It’s often terrifying as well, making it somewhat unique amongst Pynchon’s writings.

I was walking around outside, I'd just taken a test. I wear shorts when I go outside even though it's below freezing these days. I do this because I have a history of being denatured by the cold, mentally, physically, and every other way possible. I figure if I dress beneath standard, I'll become more resilient. It's also kind of invigorating in a way, that first freezing wind when it hits you.

Anyway, I'd just taken a test, so that's why I was outside around nine—I remember my phone saying 8:42. My phone's birthday is coming up in April. It'll be five years old, much older than the average phone. My Mom made me get a new phone but I couldn't bring myself to make the switch, though I admit the new one is nice. I'll keep using the five year old till it quits for good. I'm proud of my phone's age and it's status as still kicking, given that I live in a culture of "use it till the better one comes out, replace, repeat" I think I have the right to be proud, but rest assured there's no pretension.

So yeah, I was outside around nine, 8:42 if you care to know, and I saw three people running instep. You see this often where I live, which is bounded by two streets named by rivers longitudinally—Guadeloupe to the west and Red River to the east—and two people latitudinally—MLK to the south and Dean Keaton the north, who that is I don't know). I don't leave that quadrilateral very often but I do take a fair amount of walks within. Come to think of it, I do go to the grocery store pretty regularly, every three weeks or thereabouts, and that's on Red River but way past 32nd and way way past Mr or Mrs Keaton. Through what I've purchased inside the grocery store (a far cry from my beloved Rockwall Kroger) I've found that I like honey nut cheerios for snacks, and I've rediscovered my childhood adoration for honey grahams. It's interesting how you'd expect their cooperation with peanut butter just through the taste. I personally don't like the combo

Back on track: Three people were running instep. That got me wondering what it would be like if everyone walked instep as if to some internal rhythm that we all shared. Sounds funny. That got my thinking what if we all goose-stepped everywhere—a thought which isn't altogether different from imagining a world void of knees. Sounds uncomfortable.

Like anyone thinking about goose-stepping, I then thought about totalitarian regimes. According to a psychology class I had taken last year that's not unusual (Tom Jones). My teacher spent an entire lecture talking about common threads amongst the likes of Nazis, Commies (Z-draws-voo-eat-ye), and N. Koreans. "They all like to goose-step," she said, "we find it comical, they find it inspiring." How she knows the exact feeling of the collective we and they is beyond me.

Which brings me to Genghis Kahn. (naturally). I was reading about a book that asserts that the western portrayal of our pal Genghis is a thousand-year hack job of a PR campaign, in so many words. Instead of the barbarian image, they claim that he laid the foundation for our modern world, mass communication and all. I haven't read this book, and I know nothing of Genghis Kahn except for a hazy idea of his wardrobe (via pop culture), so I'm not one to analyze. When people open their mouths without, intruth, any idea of what they're talking about chaos ensues. It's spontaneous because they increase entropy apparently. Again, no expert here.

Speaking of books, I started reading Mason & Dixon about a week ago. If you're interested in things of that ilk I'd highly recommend. If you've never read Pynchon because people say he's difficult I'd still recommend because Mason & Dixon is a breeze compared to Gravity's Rainbow and even V. Lot 49 is quite a bit easier but that's to be expected. I read it just about every night from 12-1 am. I don't have to wake up until around 10-11 because I stuck all my classes in the afternoon. We call that forethought in these parts. Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon are fixing to head out to America. "Fixing to" is idiomatic I think. I'm no English major though.

Movies: I got into the Coen Bros. movies' after seeing True Grit over the break. I started a free Netflix account just for that purpose, in fact. Barton Fink was nice, that wall paper gives me the creeps just thinking about it. I watched the Hudsucker Proxy too which was also nice, though it got me thinking about defenestration. Windows stay closed. I'd already seen the standard fare: No Country.. and Fargo and Burn After Reading and O Brother.. . Oh brother, Charlie Brown.

Band of Brothers was a really great miniseries, I was just thinking about that. I never got into The Pacific, though the Australia episode was great; it let me know how great Australian girls are. They drive on the left.

They have Gosford Park on Netflix too. That movie is definitely one of my all time favorites.

I got William L Shirer's The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich for Christmas. I've read a swell chunk. If anyone's up for a game of WWII Trivial Pursuit count me in. I think that's my ultimate goal: somewhere out in my future is a game of Trivial Pursuit for all the marbles. I aim to win that game by reading books and experiencing things that people shouldn't want to do readily. I'll be full of random knowledge, mostly useless, kind of like my Dad. Ask him any question about history or most other things and he's got the answer somewhere between his ears. That's me in twenty-five years. Rhyming.

Now that I think about it, one of the threads running through Salinger's Franny and Zooey is this quasi-Eastern mantra against knowledge for knowledge's sake. I don't know how they explain that one; to me, it's enriching. Life is fuller when your head is too, or so it seems from where I'm sitting. And now I'm standing.

Funny: Go to Wikipedia, type in bermuda triangle. Once you're at the article, go to the section titled "human error." The second sentence is easily the funniest thing I've ever read on Wikipedia.

Now you know me better than most people know me.

my aunt's name is Monica. She is a veterinarian AND a vegetarian and she bakes special cakes. They're special but I cannot remember why. The Monica in this song always puts on the red light, if you know what I mean. Like Roxanne..

To explain the title: I went home this week from wherever it is that I actually live. I decided about half way there that I would never reach my destination; I didn't see this as sombre or pessimistic or anything, just hopeful in that if I got there I'd be happy and surprised. I subscribed to the same notion for the return journey. I made it there both times and practically celebrated. The fact that both places exist when I'm not there is enough, particularly my home.

Another secret to my own happiness lies in profanity. I was driving home from Arlington one time and I decided that I'd had enough of vulgarity and cursing. I decided I'd quit, but I couldn't help but smile because I realized that whether I quit or not, it made no difference to anyone but me. That singularity is reassuring.

It's the thought that counts--and that applies to far more than gifts.