You guys said I could jump into it. I'm on page 20 and I don't understand a single fucking thing

It will start making sense if you keep reading, idiot.

protip: it actually won't

Jump into it they said

OP, of you're as dumb as this guy, I suggest you start with John Green and work your way up. It might take a few years, but you'll eventually understand at least a little.

Strap yourself in for about 800 more pages of this shit.

Try to distance the inane from the scope of the novel; don't try to contextualize little facts or events yet.

Once the book progresses and you begin to understand the world, characters, more things will start falling into place and you'll appreciate the little shit, or you won't and you'll hate the book, but it's still worth the read.

It's a movie.

ottosell.de/pynchon/rainbow.htm
Not that guy, but I'm 450 pages in, and it's gotten very easy to follow.
Part 1 is just difficult because it plops different scenes with new characters in front of you every 5 pages.
Part 2 is easy, the first half of part 3 has been easy, I've heard part 4 is fucking crazy, looking forward to it.

Well there’s one place where Shit ‘n’ Shinola do come together, and that’s in the men’s toilet at the Roseland Ballroom, the place Slothrop departed from on his trip down the toilet, as revealed in the St. Veronica Papers (preserved, mysteriously, from that hospital’s great holocaust). Shit, now, is the color white folks are afraid of. Shit is the presence of death, not some abstract-arty character with a scythe but the stiff and rotting corpse itself inside the whiteman’s warm and private own asshole, which is getting pretty intimate. That’s what that white toilet’s for. You see many brown toilets? Nope, toilet’s the color of gravestones, classical columns of mausoleums, that white porcelain’s the very emblem of Odorless and Official Death. Shinola shoeshine polish happens to be the color of Shit. Shoeshine boy Malcolm’s in the toilet slappin’ on the Shinola, working off whiteman’s penance on his sin of being born the color of Shit ‘n’ Shinola.

pseuds:
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Fags:

>He is the father you will never quite manage to kill. The Oedipal situation in the Zone these days is terrible. There is no dignity. The mothers have been masculinized to old worn moneybags of no sexual interest to anyone, and yet here are their sons, still trapped inside inertias of lust that are 40 years out of date. The fathers have no power today and never did, but because 40 years ago we could not kill them, we are condemned now to the same passivity, the same masochist fantasies they cherished in secret, and worse, we are condemned in our weakness to impersonate men of power our own infant children must hate, and wish to usurp the place of, and fail… So generation after generation of men in love with pain and passivity serve out their time in the Zone, silent, redolent of faded sperm, terrified of dying, desperately addicted to the comforts others sell them, however useless, ugly or shallow, willing to have life defined for them by men whose only talent is for death.
W-wew...

>He does smile, crookedly as a man being theatrical about something for the very first time. Knowing it for a move there's to be no going back from, in the same terminal class as reaching for a gun, he turns his face upward, and look up through all the faintly superimposed levels above, the milieux of every sort of criminal soul, every unpleasant commercial color from aquamarine to beige, desolate as sunlight on a day when you'd rather have rain, all the clanging enterprise and bustle of all those levels, extending further than Pirate or Katje can see for the moment, he lifts his long, his guilty, his permanently enslaved face to the illusion of sky, to the reality of pressure and weight from overhead, the hardness and absolute cruelty of it, while she presses her own face into the easy lowland between his shoulder and pectoral, a look on her face of truce, of horror come to detente with, and as a sunset proceeds, the kind that changes the faces of buildings to light gray for a while, to an ashy soft chaff of light bleating over their outward curves, in the strangely forge like glow in the west, the anxiety of pedestrians staring in the tiny store-front window at the dim goldsmith behind his fire at his work and paying them no attention, afraid because the light looks like it's going to go away forever this time, and more afraid because the failure of light is not a private thing, *everyone else in the street has seen it too. . .* as it grows darker, the orchestra inside this room does, as a mtter of fact strike up a tune, dry, and astringent . . . and candelabra have been lighter after all . . . there is Veal Florentine ripening in the ovens tonight, there are drinks on the House, and drunks in the hammocks,

>And all the world's busy, this twi-light!

>Who knows what morning-streets, our shoes have known?

>Who knows, how many friends, we've left, to cry alone?

>We have a moment together,

>We'll hum this tune for a day . . .

>Ev'ryone's dancing, in twi-light,

>Dancing the bad dream a-way . . . .

>And they do dance: though Pirate never could before, very well . . . they feel quite in touch with all the others as they move, and if they are never to be at full ease, still it's not parade rest any longer . . . so they dissolve now, into the race and swarm of this dancing Preterition, and their faces, the dear, comical faces they have put on for this ball, fade, as innocence fades, grimly flirtatious, and striving to be king . . . .

Stop speed reading you loser. Everything is fairly locally coherent (except for a couple chapters, e.g. The Kenosha Kid), plus it becomes a (practically) linear story for the middle 500 pages.

Keep reading and try to laugh. Or don't, and quit, and fail to expand yourself in any way

It's fucking written in a parabola

Whatcha mean mate

I don't know what the fuck that's all about, but I like the sound of those words.

only patrician in thread

test

It's really not that complicated.

What did he mean by this

Childhood is thinking pyncheon is talented

Adulthood is realizing that the only worthwile postmodernist is DeLoli

Did somebody say Loli?