Oh, this beer here is cold, cold and hop-bitter, no point coming up for air, gulp, till it's all--hahhhh. Thomas Pynchon More Quotes by Thomas Pynchon More Quotes From Thomas Pynchon My belief is that "recluse" is a code word generated by journalists... meaning, "doesn't like to talk to reporters." Thomas Pynchon recluse journalist belief The general public has long been divided into two parts; those who think that science can do anything and those who are afraid it will. Thomas Pynchon two long thinking She may know a little, may think of herself, face and body, as ‘pretty’…but he could never tell her all the rest, how many other living things, birds, nights smelling of grass and rain, sunlit moments of simple peace, also gather in what she is to him. Thomas Pynchon rain love romantic It's been a prevalent notion. Fallen sparks. Fragments of vessels broken at the Creation. And someday, somehow, before the end, a gathering back to home. A messenger from the Kingdom, arriving at the last moment. But I tell you there is no such message, no such home -- only the millions of last moments . . . nothing more. Our history is an aggregate of last moments. Thomas Pynchon broken atheist home Danger's over, Banana Breakfast is saved. Thomas Pynchon bananas danger breakfast Through the machineries of greed, pettiness, and the abuse of power, love occurs. Thomas Pynchon power-of-love abuse greed All investigations of Time, however sophisticated or abstract, have at their true base the human fear of mortality. Thomas Pynchon mortality sophisticated time The hand of Providence creeps among the stars, giving Slothrop the finger. Thomas Pynchon stars giving hands But on the way home tonight, you wish you'd picked him up, held him a bit. Just held him, very close to your heart, his cheek by the hollow of your shoulder, full of sleep. As it it were you who could, somehow, save him. For the moment not caring who you're supposed to be registered as. For the moment, anyway, no longer who the Caesars say you are. Thomas Pynchon home sleep heart What North Europe thinks of as its history is actually quite provincial and of limited interest. Different sorts of Christian killing each other, and that's about it. Thomas Pynchon christian europe thinking Perhaps its familiarity rendered it temporarily invisible to you. Thomas Pynchon familiarity invisible book In recent weeks, in true messianic style, it has come clear to her that her real identity is literally, the force of gravity. I am Gravity, I am That against which the Rocket must struggle, to which prehistoric wastes submit and are transmuted to the very substance of History. Thomas Pynchon style real struggle To have humanism we must first be convinced of our humanity. As we move further into decadence this becomes more difficult. Thomas Pynchon humanity moving firsts I dream that I have found us both again, With spring so many strangers' lives away, And we, so free, Out walking by the sea, With someone else's paper words to say.... They took us at the gates of green return, Too lost by then to stop, and ask them why- Do children meet again? Does any trace remain, Along the superhighways of July? Thomas Pynchon dream spring children But as with Maxwell's Demon, so now. Either she could not communicate, or he did not exist. Thomas Pynchon maxwell communicate demon Darkness invades the dreams of the glassblower. Of all the unpleasantries his dreams grab in out of the night air, an extinguished light is the worst. Light in his dreams, was always hope: the basic, moral hope. As the contacts break helically away, hope turns to darkness, and the glassblower wakes sharply tonight crying, "Who? Who?" Thomas Pynchon light dream night If there is something comforting - religious, if you want - about paranoia, there is still also anti-paranoia, where nothing is connected to anything, a condition not many of us can bear for long. Thomas Pynchon religious comforting long There is nothing so loathsome as a sentimental surrealist. Thomas Pynchon surrealist sentimental Let me be unambiguous. I prefer not to be photographed. Thomas Pynchon let-me "You are so close." "To whom? Margravine, not even to himself. This place, this island: all his life he's done nothing but hop from island to island. Is that a reason? Does there have to be a reason? Shall he tell you: he works for no Whitehall, non conceivable unless, ha, ha, the network of white halls in his own brain: these featureless corridors he keeps swept and correct for occasional visiting agents." Thomas Pynchon white islands brain
