Wednesday, November 09, 2005
idiot reads book, embarrasses self by writing about it in cyberspace.
Almost done with V.; only the epilogue is left. I doubt anything in the last twenty pages will change my mind much, so here are a few thoughts. Okay, maybe half of one thought. Um, good book! Really entertaining, and shit. Yeah. It's the first time I've read anything by Thomas Pynchon (well, not counting the 275 pages I read of the same book three years ago), and I can definitely see a strong influence upon David Foster Wallace.
I wouldn't necessarily call V. better than Infinite Jest (I'd have to finally finish the latter first to really make any such judgment), but when it comes to jumping between seemingly unconnected characters and time periods, V. by and large does a better job of maintaining my interest than Wallace's doorstop. So many wide swaths of Infinite Jest initially frustrated me, stuff like leaving the tennis academy for 80 pages in order to focus on the rehab clinic, or the spies up on the mountain, or some Russians playing cards down in the back of the Berezka on Harvard and Comm. Eight years ago I stalled out on Infinite Jest during that extended scene when Green, or maybe Lenz, or whoever, hopes to kill a dog while walking home from a meeting, but is prevented by Green/Lenz/whoever's accompaniment. I haven't really touched it since, although when I lived off Commonwealth Avenue I meant to several times. But so, V. makes similar diversions from what, at first, seems to be the main story, but none of them are a bother. In fact the balance between the mid-'50's bohemian antics and the historical vignettes related to Stencil's quest is pretty damn crucial; without that thread the period pieces would be too random and disconnected, whereas without those chapters the lack of character depth and relative aimlessness would leave the contemporary scenes too trifling and transparent. So the various narrative strands in V. feel more unified than in Infinite Jest. Of course, maybe V. made more of an impression simply on account of my associating more easily with lazy faux-intellectual hipster-types than tennis prodigies, rehabbers, or Canadian separatists.
But so, there's a lot of greatness in V. The wide-lens view of the "Whole Sick Crew", would-be artists and beatniks, but mostly just drunks, shows how little the "counterculture" has changed over the last half-century. Bohemians still talk a lot of wind, still mostly just want to get fucked up. The depth of knowledge and detail in Pynchon's descriptions of turn-of-the-century Egypt, mid-'20's German Africa, WWII-era Malta, et al, is impressive. The central mystery, how it winds through all the flashbacks, and connects with the present day, is nicely handled, and richly rewarding. That main theme of dehumanization, the mechanization of man, the rise of the inanimate, is a fertile one, and very appropriate for the time. Pynchon kind of beats you over the head with it, though, as it appears blatantly or subliminally on basically every page. Between the Crew's dissolute behavior, Stencil referring to himself in the third person, the robots at Profane's night watchman job, V.'s encroaching cyborgism, and the constant use of the word inanimate, you'd have to be pretty much retarded to overlook this. So maybe he overdoes it, but at least it provides more nice catch-the-connection moments, like a good episode of Arrested Development.
Anyway, I've got to get back to work. Let me state, finally, that, in addition to whatever literary merit V. might have, it's also a truly funny book, one that can probably be enjoyed without reading too closely. Yes ma'am.
Almost done with V.; only the epilogue is left. I doubt anything in the last twenty pages will change my mind much, so here are a few thoughts. Okay, maybe half of one thought. Um, good book! Really entertaining, and shit. Yeah. It's the first time I've read anything by Thomas Pynchon (well, not counting the 275 pages I read of the same book three years ago), and I can definitely see a strong influence upon David Foster Wallace.
I wouldn't necessarily call V. better than Infinite Jest (I'd have to finally finish the latter first to really make any such judgment), but when it comes to jumping between seemingly unconnected characters and time periods, V. by and large does a better job of maintaining my interest than Wallace's doorstop. So many wide swaths of Infinite Jest initially frustrated me, stuff like leaving the tennis academy for 80 pages in order to focus on the rehab clinic, or the spies up on the mountain, or some Russians playing cards down in the back of the Berezka on Harvard and Comm. Eight years ago I stalled out on Infinite Jest during that extended scene when Green, or maybe Lenz, or whoever, hopes to kill a dog while walking home from a meeting, but is prevented by Green/Lenz/whoever's accompaniment. I haven't really touched it since, although when I lived off Commonwealth Avenue I meant to several times. But so, V. makes similar diversions from what, at first, seems to be the main story, but none of them are a bother. In fact the balance between the mid-'50's bohemian antics and the historical vignettes related to Stencil's quest is pretty damn crucial; without that thread the period pieces would be too random and disconnected, whereas without those chapters the lack of character depth and relative aimlessness would leave the contemporary scenes too trifling and transparent. So the various narrative strands in V. feel more unified than in Infinite Jest. Of course, maybe V. made more of an impression simply on account of my associating more easily with lazy faux-intellectual hipster-types than tennis prodigies, rehabbers, or Canadian separatists.
But so, there's a lot of greatness in V. The wide-lens view of the "Whole Sick Crew", would-be artists and beatniks, but mostly just drunks, shows how little the "counterculture" has changed over the last half-century. Bohemians still talk a lot of wind, still mostly just want to get fucked up. The depth of knowledge and detail in Pynchon's descriptions of turn-of-the-century Egypt, mid-'20's German Africa, WWII-era Malta, et al, is impressive. The central mystery, how it winds through all the flashbacks, and connects with the present day, is nicely handled, and richly rewarding. That main theme of dehumanization, the mechanization of man, the rise of the inanimate, is a fertile one, and very appropriate for the time. Pynchon kind of beats you over the head with it, though, as it appears blatantly or subliminally on basically every page. Between the Crew's dissolute behavior, Stencil referring to himself in the third person, the robots at Profane's night watchman job, V.'s encroaching cyborgism, and the constant use of the word inanimate, you'd have to be pretty much retarded to overlook this. So maybe he overdoes it, but at least it provides more nice catch-the-connection moments, like a good episode of Arrested Development.
Anyway, I've got to get back to work. Let me state, finally, that, in addition to whatever literary merit V. might have, it's also a truly funny book, one that can probably be enjoyed without reading too closely. Yes ma'am.
