world literature

Initially, I wanted to read this book so that I could have something to talk about at lame college parties, but then I read it and fell in love with the prose, and narrative attitude that Pynchon employs. My first mistake though was reading it for historical accuracy and knowledge. The book is indeed a genuine, satirical, and poignant commentary on the Second World War, albeit to read it as such is absurd--you'll gain nothing but a headache. I would read a page for almost an hour, thinking the current topic of the sexual prowess of so and so would be revealed to be an intricate part to some rocket sequence, and then find out Pynchon had been talking about wallpaper. The book is merely, in (of course) my opinion, lyrical genius. I stopped reading it when I realized I was trying to contextualize everything in some time and place I heard about through a history text--as if fiction only gets good when it seems real ; upon my second try I attempted to read it as a poem. I read it all the way through like this. Without any meaning, significance, or thought of satirical connotation, the book becomes a simple feast for the ears ; I enjoyed reading this book because it sounds so good. I would want to read my friends non-sequitir passages about bananas and artillery because I thought that lingually they were beautiful, and that perhaps the book is not supposed to be taken as a serious political/historical novel. Read it for the words ; language can be meaningful and intimate and special just because it sounds, well, neat. If you are going to sit there and look up every reference, then you will miss out on Pynchon's most amazing literary talents.

Before I throw in my two cents, I should admit that, aside from Faulkner, I believe Pynchon to be the most gifted American writer of the 20th Century. I've read all of his books (as I have Faulkner's), and some of them more than once. Therefore, the following remarks are not those of a dispassionate and objective critic, but of a fan. That being said, the first time I read Gravity's Rainbow, I was as perplexed as most. And yet, even in my confusion, I couldn't help but recognize the beauty of the writing. Say what you will, Pynchon's prose is undeniably some of the most beautifully written stuff out there. The second time I read it, I did so in conjunction with Weisenburger's annotations, and both before and after the second reading, read some articles and essays presenting possible themes, interpretations, intentions of the author, etc., etc. I was really getting into Pynchon at this time and was reading his other novels as well. All of this reading, research, whatever, sparked new ideas about the book, clarified, and sometimes reaffirmed, notions that had arisen in my first, and more strongly, my second reading of the novel, and gave me a fuller understanding of Pynchon's influences, his ideas, and how he was attempting to present those ideas in his work, especially this, his "masterpiece." But there was no revelation, no comprehensive understanding of the book, no "Oh, I get it" (although overall, when appraising the novel as a whole, I did feel less confused) and those seeking such a thing when reading fiction, I feel, are somewhat misguided. "Comprehensive understanding," to me, sounds a little oxymoronic, and very likely nonexistent. Even the worst stuff out there, in its own way, resists definitive interpretation, which to my mind, is the greatest thing about literature, or any form of art, in that anyone who experiences it, can take from it what they wish. A year or so later, on a whim, I picked it up one afternoon and began reading the first few pages to kill some time. Before long, I had dropped everything else I was then reading and read nothing else until I had finished it yet again. This third reading was the most enjoyable, and I believe the reason for this was that for the first time I wasn't seeking understanding, or instruction, or entertainment, but was simply indulging my admiration for technically brilliant and beautiful writing. The prose is poetic (some would say overwritten, depending on what you go for), even in its descriptions of very shocking and disgusting acts (Brig. Gen. Pudding's copraphagic (sp?) encounter with Katje being one of these), but especially in its treatment of relationships familial and romantic, unrequited desires, etc. (e.g. Roger's yearning for Jessica, Slothrop's for Katje, Enzian and Tchitcherine's first and only meeting). The novel, in it's own quirky and eccentric way, is incredibly sad at times, sentimental even, nostalgic (for a spiritual innocence that's been lost, maybe, a faith in mysticism, magic, prior to what is modern as symbolized by the 20th Century before technology, so in- and per-vasive, became man's faith and paranoia an ideology (It's no coincidence the setting is the end of World War II on the eve of cold war, before the Bomb became just another fact of life, one of many what if? points perhaps) yet you have to really look for this sadness behind the despairing humor and all of the information and allusions and puns and wordgames with which Pynchon bombards the reader (this bombardment, in my opinion, having a thematic purpose rather than the shameless self-glorification that so many readers assert, however, just thinking about trying to explain why I think this is so seems very wearisome, and I'll gladly spare the both of us.) Enough. I'm rambling. Just read it, or at least try. Have no expectations, ignore your ideas about fiction, and how you think a novel should be constructed. Read it simply for the brilliance of the writing. If a shedding of conventional expectations is possible, perhaps in doing so, you'll realize that Pynchon's treatment of old fears and concerns, i.e. his humanity, is not so unconventional as once thought.

This book is woefully underappreciated, in large part, I suspect, because of all the terminal 'glitz' surrounding it- in re its opaqueness, its fairly mammoth scope, its discursiveness, it's dizzying rage of reference. I dare sa, however, that if you liked or appreciated Ulysses, you can't miss this one. It is very much of a tradition in American letters going back at least as far as 'Moby Dick' and, so far as I am concerned, is every bit as noteworthy. Wade through it- go gently- you will never forget this book, and it will alter the way you look at the world.
(I wonder that the Modern Library didn't even include it in it's list of the "100 best Novels" of the 20th Century. Incidentally.)