Thursday, November 19, 2015

Crying of Lot 49 timed write



Carefully read the following passage from The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon.  Then write an essay in which you analyze how Pynchon’s style and choice of these and other images from the novel convey the complexity of Oedipa’s understanding of reality.

            “Meaning what?  That Bortz, along with Metzger, Cohen, Driblette, Koteks, the tattooed sailor in San Francisco, the W.A.S.T.E. carriers she’d seen—that all of them were Pierce Inverarity’s men?  Bought?  Or loyal, for free, for fun, to some grandiose practical joke he’d cooked up, all for her embarrassment, or terrorizing, or moral improvement?
            “Change your name to Miles, Dean, Serge, and/or Leonard, baby, she advised her reflection in the half-light of that afternoon’s vanity mirror.  Either way, they’ll call it paranoia.  They.  Either you have stumbled indeed, without the aid of LSD or other indole alkaloids, onto a secret richness and concealed density of dream; onto a network by which X number of Americans are truly communicating whilst reserving their lies, recitations of routine, arid betrayals of spiritual poverty, for the official government delivery system; maybe even onto a real alternative to the exitlessness, to the absence of surprise to life, that harrows the head of everybody American you know, and you too, sweetie.  Or you are hallucinating it.  Or a plot has been mounted against you, so expensive and elaborate, involving items like the forging of stamps and ancient books, constant surveillance of your movements, planting post horn images all over San Francisco, bribing librarians, hiring of professional actors and Pierce Inverarity only knows what-all besides, all financed out of the estate in a way either too secret or too involved for your non-legal mind to know about even though you are a co-executor, so labyrinthine that it must have meaning beyond just a practical joke.  Or you are fantasying some such plot, in which case you are a nut, Oedipa, out of your skull.”
                                                            (Pynchon, 170-171)

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