"After the 11 September attack," March editorializes one morning, "amid all that chaos and confusion, a hole quietly opened up in American history, a… - Thomas Pynchon
"After the 11 September attack," March editorializes one morning, "amid all that chaos and confusion, a hole quietly opened up in American history, a vacuum of accountability, into which assets human and financial begin to vanish. Back in the days of hippie simplicity, people liked to blame 'the CIA' or 'a secret rogue operation.' But this is a new enemy, unnamable, locatable on no organization chart or budget line — who knows, maybe even the CIA's scared of them."
Thomas Ruggles Pynchon, Jr. (born 8 May 1937) is an American writer based in New York City, known for his dense and complex works of fiction.
Biography information from
Wikiquote·
Portrait adapted from
Wikimedia Commons, Photo presumably taken by "Mr. DiLillo", who was identified as staff photographer of The Oysterette (Mead 1989, p. 170). (Public domain / CC0)
Also Known As
Alternative Names:
Thomas Ruggles Pynchon, Jr.
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Thomas Ruggles Pynchon
Portrait from Wikimedia Commons. Credit: Photo presumably taken by "Mr. DiLillo", who was identified as staff photographer of The Oysterette (Mead 1989, p. 170).. Used under Public domain / CC0. Processed and styled by Quotewise.
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His life had been tied to the past. He’d seen himself a point on a moving wavefront, propagating through sterile history — a known past, a projectable future. But she was the breaking of the wave. Suddenly there was a beach, the unpredictable… new life. Past and future stopped at the beach: that was how he’d set it out. But he wanted to believe it too, the same way he loved her, past all words — believe that no matter how bad the time, nothing was fixed, everything could be changed and she could always deny the dark sea at his back, love it away. And (selfishly) that from a somber youth, squarely founded on Death — along for Death’s ride — he might, with her, find his way to life and to joy.
"I came," she said, "hoping you could talk me out of a fantasy." Cherish it!" cried Hilarious, fiercely. "What else do any of you have? Hold it tightly by it's little tentacle, don't let the Freudians coax it away or the pharmacists poison it out of you. Whatever it is, hold it dear, for when you lose it you go over by that much to the others. You begin to cease to be.
The eyes of New York women do not see the wandering bums or the boys with no place to go. Material wealth and getting laid strolled arm-in-arm the midway of Profane’s mind. If he’d been the type who evolves theories of history for his own amusement, he might have said all political events: wars, governments and uprisings, have the desire to get laid as their roots; because history unfolds according to economic forces and the only reason anybody wants to get rich is so he can get laid steadily, with whoever he chooses. All he believed at this point, on the bench behind the library was, that any body who worked for inanimate money so he could buy more inanimate objects was out of his head. Inanimate money was to get animate warmth, dead fingernails in the living shoulderblades, quick cries against the pillow, tangled hair, lidded eyes, listing loins.
