1990. Thomas Pynchon

[Pyramid] A novel 2 min 21 sec ago [Northwards - Violenzo] 4 hours 57 min ago [Tags - Literature] Thank you 5 hours 4 min ago paradoxically, not 13 hours 10 min ago [strong readers] I found 14 hours 20 mins ago [Tag] Exactly, meanwhile 14 hours 24 min ago [Tag and errors] So, in 14 hours 42 min ago [Byatt] Remarkable, I confess 14 hours 46 min ago [Byatt] Anyway, "The book 17 hours 20 mins ago [Ragnarok-Nikitas] And 17 hours 21 min ago
DRUGS DO NOT WORK (And so, TRP, I decided. Want to smoke your ashes)
1990. Thomas Pynchon's fourth novel, published seventeen years away from "Gravity's Rainbow", "Vineland" is a novel fake: Clever packaging editorial sewn around what remains of the American flag-bearer of the postmodern: a scarecrow. Opera is as fake as fake the identity of Thomas Pynchon, winter 2012 artifice editorial Yankees, eternal pseudonym of a collective of scholars goliards winter 2012 in the vein of satire winter 2012 pop-lit or coward who has never made to face the audience and the critics, hidden as a brand in houses rich Imperialist America. winter 2012 That so much criticism and so decries, but plays so well. Like a good voyeur. Certain winter 2012 ticks should be flushed out and forced to light: a comparison, honesty, dialectic. Especially when it comes to ticks sproloquianti, and long-winded speech, capable of Artist's Shit planetary circulation - at this point, inexplicable.
In this book, a difference - and that difference was the only thing that kept alive the structural disorder and delusions of the author - the first works, winter 2012 Pynchon writes badly. Sloppy, and when populating when pretentious. Uncoordinated. Or write stupid things discreetly. And I am not referring winter 2012 only to the nauseating - I'm winter 2012 serious - avalanche of reminiscences cathode: I allude to passages like this: "and the address winter 2012 of Vond cock had become the handle winter 2012 by which she tossed in the future in the great game of life, he would attempted to maneuver between the hazards and obstacles, avoid, steering, monsters dive and dodge bullets aliens in game to game, year after year, returned again to leave the house after curfew, winter 2012 forgetting to call home while the supply of coins gradually diminishes, (...) and to play, to play for nothing "(p. 340). The joystick - different from today's joypad, as my generation remembers - as a metaphor for the fuck? But that fucking metaphor. Mr. Pynchon, graying voyeur, remained beyond the glass of the arcades in Lumare lives that would have never known nor understood.
Pynchon writes stranger to the rain historical digressions (where it went?) Of the first novel and the historical play of the second parenthesis (the stylistic authorial lost: now what? Now, nothing of the author): it is self-referential (comparsata Mucho Maas , already winter 2012 largely secondary character in "The Crying of Lot 49", the husband of Oedipa: see p. 358, divorced, now is the "Count Drugula" - and guess why) and retains only an attitude common in the past. The most wrong: the inclusion of songs, Mentula canis, with varied intent (comment; chorus; emphasis, in general, of a content). His songs, at best.
But that god strike me dead if today an editor avallerebbe stupidity ever of its kind in a fiction series, and indeed all speculation, of newcomers italioti: "The Bard Thodol, or The Tibetan Book of the Dead, assures us that the soul often just passed away does not want to admit - indeed vehemently denies - to be really dead, being so smooth glide within the new size will not see any difference between the strangeness of life and the strangeness of death, and this phenomenon (...) is now accentuated by the TV, which, by dint of showing war movies, cops and robbers, he ended up trivializing the death itself "(p. 253). I fall for the balls.
Here you are. "Vineland" is the name of a non-existent, a pleasant winter 2012 town in California, the name could be an homage to the ancient Viking settlements in America (at least see the saga of Vollmann), "Vineland," or - according to wiki en - yet another act reverence towards Nabokov (see "Ada or ardor," Andrey Vinelander). Lives in the small town - it's 1984! Orwell is turning in his grave - a war surplus parenthesis hippie Zoyd Wheeler, a guy who lives in state subsidy for non-existent mental distress, raises a daughter, winter 2012 Prairie, for the mysterious disappearance of his wife, Frenesi Gates (ha! names speakers. But that bright), in a context of rare idiocy: television, music, and police ... in a word, a clear word for everyone. Americana.
Now I give you an example of italian job, as the Yanks say. Because even us when we start hustling mica joke. Here, I wanted to tell you about a nice page signed by the then Italian cinquante