Mean
On Hating Thomas Pynchon…
Over at New York Magazine, Sam Anderson expresses all my major feelings re Thomas Pynchon, more or less exactly as I feel them. (link via Rumpus.)
I should not, probably, hate Thomas Pynchon. He is an indisputably, uniquely gifted genius who shares artistic DNA with almost all my favorite writers (Joyce, Barthelme, DeLillo, et al). Basic demographics and taste-algorithms suggest, in fact, that I should be a full-fledged Pynchon groupie, the kind of guy who names all his hamsters Slothrop and slaps W.A.S.T.E. stickers on the windows of his local post office. But I can’t help it. My distaste is visceral, involuntary, and preconscious—a spasm of my aesthetic immune system. While I fully appreciate Pynchon in the abstract, as a literary-historical juggernaut—a necessary bridge from, say, Nabokov (with whom he studied at Cornell) to David Foster Wallace—sitting down with one of his actual books makes my eyebrows start to smolder. I find him tedious, shallow, monotonous, flippant, self-satisfied, and screamingly unfunny. I hate his aesthetic from floor to ceiling…
Wow. I mean, really, wow. Even Gravity’s Rainbow (I can understand Mason and Dixon)?
Wow. I mean, really, wow. Even Gravity’s Rainbow (I can understand Mason and Dixon)?
ive never met him
ive never met him
I think he tends to be a hell of a lot funnier than DeLillo …
I think he tends to be a hell of a lot funnier than DeLillo …
kind of wish i had thomas pynchon’s brain
kind of wish i had thomas pynchon’s brain
i dunno. but i can’t read gravity’s rainbow. one of my eyeballs runs away and when i finally find it i forget what page i was on. happens every time.
i dunno. but i can’t read gravity’s rainbow. one of my eyeballs runs away and when i finally find it i forget what page i was on. happens every time.
i read pynchon for the jokes. the rest i leave for the brainy kids.
i read pynchon for the jokes. the rest i leave for the brainy kids.
I think the guy is just jealous or wants readers.
I think the guy is just jealous or wants readers.
This whole post smacks of pretentiousness. Pynchon’s writing while frustrating is a whole lot bigger than this man’s paragraph. If you want to pick on someone take Joyce. No one give a fuck anymore.
This whole post smacks of pretentiousness. Pynchon’s writing while frustrating is a whole lot bigger than this man’s paragraph. If you want to pick on someone take Joyce. No one give a fuck anymore.
Babyhead- pretense of or toward what, exactly?
Babyhead- pretense of or toward what, exactly?
A critic with a predisposition toward hating a writer and his writing should not be reviewing said writer’s book.
A critic with a predisposition toward hating a writer and his writing should not be reviewing said writer’s book.
pretense of hatred to try to get attention or to write a clever review.
does he really hate pynchon? no. if he doesnt like his writing, he should not read his writing. no reason to hate him.
pretense of hatred to try to get attention or to write a clever review.
does he really hate pynchon? no. if he doesnt like his writing, he should not read his writing. no reason to hate him.
The Crying of Lot 49 rocks (read it thrice). Haven’t made it beyond pg 200 of V, pg 27 of Gravity’s Rainbow – read Vineland but can’t remember much beyond the initial transfenestration. Haven’t considered reading anything else. Great sentences. But after a few paragraphs my eyes wanna look elsewhere. At its worst it’s playful bloviation. Never a fan of the songs. A generational thing? No one (NO ONE) I know loves him — or, come to think of it, no one even really sort of likes him or considers him an influence etc. Gaddis I like better. But still.
The Crying of Lot 49 rocks (read it thrice). Haven’t made it beyond pg 200 of V, pg 27 of Gravity’s Rainbow – read Vineland but can’t remember much beyond the initial transfenestration. Haven’t considered reading anything else. Great sentences. But after a few paragraphs my eyes wanna look elsewhere. At its worst it’s playful bloviation. Never a fan of the songs. A generational thing? No one (NO ONE) I know loves him — or, come to think of it, no one even really sort of likes him or considers him an influence etc. Gaddis I like better. But still.
Liking D.F. Wallace and not like Thomas Pynchon is akin to liking Twinkies, but not the cream-filling.
Liking D.F. Wallace and not like Thomas Pynchon is akin to liking Twinkies, but not the cream-filling.
I like Pynchon. I think he’s hard but fun and funny. I like his songs, too.
I like Pynchon. I think he’s hard but fun and funny. I like his songs, too.
I don’t know that I agree his characters are cardboard or his tone consistently flippant. I’ve only read Gravity’s Rainbow, but I remember being impressed by his quick shifts between satire and sincerity. I’m still haunted sometimes by the German rocket maker dude who meets his maybe-daughter every year in the decaying children’s amusement park. I also think Pynchon writes about colonial pathology (the colonizer’s terror of and erotic attraction to shit, the “other,” death) in a way I’ve seen few others do through fiction.
I don’t know that I agree his characters are cardboard or his tone consistently flippant. I’ve only read Gravity’s Rainbow, but I remember being impressed by his quick shifts between satire and sincerity. I’m still haunted sometimes by the German rocket maker dude who meets his maybe-daughter every year in the decaying children’s amusement park. I also think Pynchon writes about colonial pathology (the colonizer’s terror of and erotic attraction to shit, the “other,” death) in a way I’ve seen few others do through fiction.