/lit/ - Literature

>Oedipa settled back, to await the crying of lot 49.
What the fuck Pynchon, and what the fuck /lit/. Why the fuck did anyone tell me that this novel would be good?

just bought Gravity's Rainbow as my first Pynchon book. Did I mess up?

>>12053907
It's not okay to be a Luddite

>>11806999
> ... Who claims Truth, Truth abandons. History is hir'd, or coerc'd, only in Interests that must ever prove base. She is too innocent, to be left within the reach of anyone in Power,—who need but touch her, and all her Credit is in the instant vanish'd, as if it had never been. She needs rather to be tended lovingly and honorably by fabulists and counterfeiters, Ballad-Mongers and Cranks of ev'ry Radius, Masters of Disguise to provide her the Costume, Toilette, and Bearing, and Speech nimble enough to keep her beyond the Desires, or even the Curiosity, of Government...

>>11798358
Did GR deserve the Nebula?

>>11531906
It's actually about Vietnam as well!

GR

>>11415628
For me, it's Gravity's Rainbow.

Deep down y'all know it, too. He does, too.

https://www.gq.com/story/21-books-you-dont-have-to-read
>Huck Fin, Gravity's Rainbow, Blood Meridian, Catcher and the rye, Old man and the Sea. Why do they do it?

Where do I start with this fella? What prerequisite readings do I need to understand him?

34
>Elleander Morning
>The Anubis Gates
>The Club Dumas
>Gateway
>The Crying of Lot 49

>>10633255

"Highway slice ahead in his windshield, the overhead lights level with each other, bending at ninety, shooting their orange glows all across the sky; the ground whipping by, speeding under the palatial monuments of light, himself picturing the glowlines erecting structures whose geometries lie hidden; these ectoplasmic worlds unseen, going in every vector above the wooden skeletons of winter and cracked pavement, who exchange lamentations in the dead hour when the tires give respite, and the trees sway in aggregation, in obedience to the crystalline stasis of December's reckoning—when the sun fails to stab through the icy airs, and it hangs low, white mist in suspension, and the people carry on in their cars marked by salt, encrusted with ice, vapours trailing behind, encased in their heated interiors, podcasts in ear, data waves flowing, careening into the Day's beginning. It was his first morning ritual since she left... in the same seat she'd sit time and time again; only the upholstery now, unshouldered belt, and the cup holder's absence of her mug or coffee from a quick stop, stark in its affirmation towards a single use, and now that use betrayed, relegated to a shadow in a cold corner, its concavity its purpose and failure... the bygone Sundays dedicated to cleaning, her finding, with humor, his stockpile of dispatched coffee cups, carefully placed behind the driver's seat, “there's a basket back here for a reason,” in her feigned outrage, shooting a loving stare, appreciating his foibles... oh, and how they dwell in the realm of memory, ashen, blurred outlines of their subjects, never to be realized again... gone... she looms above like space, consuming his material, colliding with his skies every morning now... “I don't ever want you to leave”... soft timbre, crimson lipstick... I never wanted those days to go... and how tantalizing the orbs of oncoming seem now... defy the cold just once, be here, us again.
Frank Bereuver had lost his wife three months back. He felt unsure. "

What author do we meme into oblivion next?

Pfff...

>Pynchon explicitly acknowledges his debt to Beat Generation writers, and expresses his admiration for Jack Kerouac's On the Road in particular.
How do you deal with this, /lit/?

>>8786268

a-at least he's not Murakami-tier yet right?

His prose is heady, themes bleak, bombs are steady
Please get the awards ready, this author ain’t deady
He’s furthest, from the pop-culture armageddon
He's a recluse with a purpose and you're far from gettin'
What he wrote down, the whole sky screams so loud
He opens his mouth but the turd won’t go down
He’s chokin’ now, the whole book’s broken now
His cock’s gone up, take cover, explosion - Pow!
Snap back to hilarity, oh, there’s goes gravity
Oh, there’s goes Pynchon, he’s dope, he’s so rad but he
won’t give up irony, nope, he’s old-fashioned, he knows
that David Wallace destroyed his whole faction, he smokes
He’s high daily, it shows, he’s so batshit, he trolls
The /lit/ board as his games download patches
It goes, he plays Crysis on Ult with no crashes
He better go pick up a pen and write ‘fore he passes

>IQ of 190
>6'2", the perfect male height
>perfect nose
>perfect eyebrows
>lustful and dreamy eyes
>perfect detached earlobes
>exceeding white teeth optimized for eating pussy
>9x7 inch dick
>perfect fohawk

Why are the gods so unfair, /lit?

ITT: we imitate Pynchon's writing.

I won't start, because I don't want to be the asshole who makes an ITT thread just so they can post something clever they thought up.

Helpful tips:
>retarded names
>"sez"
>have a character say "shit" or "aw, shit" at least once
>arcane technical, literary, mathematical, or historical allusions no one can understand
>write in 3rd person about a (silliliy-named) character's thoughts about a conspiracy directed against them, preferably filled with rhetorical questions, italics for childish emphasis, and stuttering
>have an obsessive character give a speech about some obscure facet of philosophy, music, history, literature, or the world in general suggesting that they know something about it --no one else does-- (italics for emphasis)
etc

*lighter clicks*
*inhales*
*exhales*
lil wayne voice: "mu-ha-ha-ha-ha..."