Le convoluted conspiracy theories wacky antics goofy names meme man

>le convoluted conspiracy theories wacky antics goofy names meme man

Why do people pretend he's not a hack?

Younger contemporary writers who have been touted as heirs to Pynchon include David Foster Wallace, William Vollmann, Richard Powers, Steve Erickson, David Mitchell, Neal Stephenson, Dave Eggers, and Tommaso Pincio whose pseudonym is an Italian rendering of Pynchon's name.[citation needed]

Pynchon's work has been cited as an influence and inspiration by many writers, directors and artists, including T. Coraghessan Boyle, David Foster Wallace, Don DeLillo, Ian Rankin, William Gibson, Elfriede Jelinek, Rick Moody, Alan Moore, Arturo Pérez-Reverte, Richard Powers, Salman Rushdie, Neal Stephenson, Bruce Sterling, Jan Wildt, Laurie Anderson, Zak Smith, David Cronenberg, Paul Thomas Anderson, James Murphy, and Adam Rapp.

Thanks to his influence on Gibson and Stephenson in particular, Pynchon became one of the progenitors of cyberpunk fiction; a 1987 essay in Spin magazine by Timothy Leary explicitly named Gravity's Rainbow as the "Old Testament" of cyberpunk, with Gibson's Neuromancer and its sequels as the "New Testament". Though the term "cyberpunk" did not become prevalent until the early 1980s, since Leary's article many readers have retroactively included Gravity's Rainbow in the genre, along with other works—e.g., Samuel R. Delany's Dhalgren and many works of Philip K. Dick—which seem, after the fact, to anticipate cyberpunk styles and themes. The encyclopedic nature of Pynchon's novels also led to some attempts to link his work with the short-lived hypertext fiction movement of the 1990s.[63]

The main-belt asteroid 152319 is named after Pynchon.

You see how even when you're being reductionist about him it can't be mistaken for anyone else, and shows originality if not depth?

>Vollmann

Barf.

>Arturo Pérez-Reverte
Wtf

>It astonished her to think that so much could be lost, even the quantity of hallucination belonging just to the sailor that the world would bear no further trace of. She knew, because she had held him, that he suffered DT’s. Behind the initials was a metaphor, a delirium tremens, a trembling unfurrowing of the mind’s plowshare. The saint whose water can light lamps, the clairvoyant whose lapse in recall is the breath of God, the true paranoid for whom all is organized in spheres joyful or threatening about the central pulse of himself, the dreamer whose puns probe ancient fetid shafts and tunnels of truth all act in the same special relevance to the word, or whatever it is the word is there, buffering , to protect us from. The act of metaphor then was a thrust at truth and a lie, depending where you were: inside, safe, or outside, lost. Oedipa did not know where she was. Trembling, unfurrowed, she slipped sidewise, screeching back across grooves of years , to hear again the earnest, high voice of her second or third collegiate love Ray Glozing bitching among “uhs” and the syncopated tonguing of a cavity, about his freshman calculus; “dt,” God help this old tattooedman, meant also a time differential, a vanishingly small instant in which change had to be confronted at last for what it was, where it could no longer disguise itself as something innocuous like an average rate; where velocity dwelled in the projectile though the projectile be frozen in midflight, where death dwelled in the cell though the cell be looked in on at its most quick. She knew that the sailor had seen worlds no other man had seen if only because there was that high magic to low puns, because DT’s must give access to dt’s of spectra beyond the known sun, music made purely of Antarctic loneliness and fright. But nothing she knew of would preserve them, or him.

what the fuck

gravity's rainbow. its catch-22, only spiked with the best drug you ever took. its a wild ride on a flower power chopper down the highway to hell. if you partake of the marijuana, youre gonna want to pick this book up. if you dont partake... then you HAVE TO PICK IT UP. it's what the doc ordered. i couldnt believe i was reading high literature the whole time i was reading gravitys rainbow. i was like, THIS is what literary critics think is good? now this i can get down to lol. just to give you a taste: the setting is extremely serious (war), but while all the serious war is happening, lots of - shall we say - less serious things are happening: a pie fight, a giant octopus, a man goes right down into the toilet to escape being raped by black guys. and those are just a few of the bits of über-rand0m that you're going to find in there. it was like an episode of tim and eric but somehow even more random and absurd. and the names of the characters were insane. it was a wild ride, like the best drug you ever took. only swallow this pill: it's a BOOK. i love it when my books are "on something," like a drug yuhknow? for like example, blood meridian is faulkner on acid. you read other war books and they dont seem to be "on" anything. then you read pynchon and its like whoa whoa whoa whoa hold on, hold on, did this guy just do what he think he did? oh yeah. he did. he took those retarded books and put them ON something yuhknow like a drug. he put them on freaking acid, boom, you take it three times youre insane, legally, and pynchon is obv obv obv insane in the freekin membrain. this is world war 2 the way they DIDNT teach you it in school. semper high, man.

the drug culture aspect of pynchon is a draw. but the way he channels the past is more compelling, no doubt that his mystique helps his writing.

a big part of the genius of his work is that he makes you wonder just what the fuck he saw back in the Nixon years.

Whoa, why didn't he write like this in V.? I might have enjoyed it more.