Status
Available
Call number
Genres
Collection
Publication
Harper Perennial Modern Classics (2006), Edition: 28th THUS, Paperback, 192 pages
Description
When Oedipa Maas is named as the executor of her late lover's will, she discovers that his estate is mysteriously connected with an underground organization.
User reviews
LibraryThing member girlunderglass
My first acquaintance with Pynchon's work. Strange. Original. Complex. Dreamlike. Schizophrenic. Did I mention strange? This is supposed to be Pynchon's most approachable work and often hailed as a great example of postmodern fiction. I don't disagree. But at the same time I know this is not a book
(kind of like this Deaf-Mute ball towards the end of the book:)
"Back in the hotel she found the lobby full of deaf-mute delegates in party hats, copied in crepe paper after the fur Chinese communist jobs made popular during the Korean conflict. They were every one of them drunk, and a few of the men grabbed her, thinking to bring her along to a party in the grand ballroom. She tried to struggle out of the silent, gesturing swarm but was too weak. Her legs ached, her mouth tasted horrible. They swept her on into the ballroom, where she was seized about the waist by a handsome young man in a Harris tweed coat and waltzed round and round, through the rustling, shuffling hush, under a great unlit chandelier. Each couple on the floor danced whatever was in the fellow's head: tango, two-step, bossa nova, slop. But how long, Oedipa thought, could it go on before collisions became a serious hindrance? There would have to be collisions. The only alternative was some unthinkable order of music, many rhythms, all keys at once, a choreography in which each couple meshed easy, predestined. Something they all heard with an extra sense atrophied in herself. She followed her partner's lead, limp in the young mute's clasp, waiting for the collisions to begin. But none came. She was danced for half an hour before, by mysterious consensus, everybody took a break, without having felt any touch but the touch of her partner. Jesus Arrabal would have called it an anarchist miracle. Oedipa, with no name for it, was only demoralized. She curtsied and fled."
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for everyone. It is not, I think, a book one falls head over heels with. It is a book that challenges what you thought you knew about how books are supposed to be. Their coherence, their development, their structure, their denouement. There's meaning and further implications hidden beneath every sentence. There's almost too much meaning for an 80-page long novella. As if the author was anxious not to waste (w.a.s.t.e.) a single word. Every word must be suffused with an extra layer of complications, another set of meanings and ideas. Another popular culture reference that requires you to be armed with a particular kind of knowledge in order to deal with it. Jay Gould. Fu-Manchu. Perry Mason. The Shadow. Nabokov. Remedios Varo. Jack Lemmon. The Beatles. "I want to kiss your feet.", sing the imaginary Paranoids of the book. Ha. Ha. Ha. Sometimes it feels like the book purports to maintain a certain level of intelligence and knowledge amongst its intended readers. Like Pynchon is trying to somehow "weed out" the most impatient of readers, the ones not determined enough to push through his obstacles and get to the meaning, the core of the book. And for this reason he keeps making things more difficult. A Jacobean play within the book. Surreal situations. LSD. Paranoia. A conspiracy that may or may not exist. Song lyrics. An unreliable narrator. An even more unreliable shrink who's supposed to help the narrator. (Dr Hilarius, a psychopath of a shrink, if there ever was one. ) Take that, public. See if you can deal with that. And that. And that. Can you? Like the Escher paintings mentioned in the book, you either take it all in together, or not at all. It either makes sense, or it doesn't.(kind of like this Deaf-Mute ball towards the end of the book:)
"Back in the hotel she found the lobby full of deaf-mute delegates in party hats, copied in crepe paper after the fur Chinese communist jobs made popular during the Korean conflict. They were every one of them drunk, and a few of the men grabbed her, thinking to bring her along to a party in the grand ballroom. She tried to struggle out of the silent, gesturing swarm but was too weak. Her legs ached, her mouth tasted horrible. They swept her on into the ballroom, where she was seized about the waist by a handsome young man in a Harris tweed coat and waltzed round and round, through the rustling, shuffling hush, under a great unlit chandelier. Each couple on the floor danced whatever was in the fellow's head: tango, two-step, bossa nova, slop. But how long, Oedipa thought, could it go on before collisions became a serious hindrance? There would have to be collisions. The only alternative was some unthinkable order of music, many rhythms, all keys at once, a choreography in which each couple meshed easy, predestined. Something they all heard with an extra sense atrophied in herself. She followed her partner's lead, limp in the young mute's clasp, waiting for the collisions to begin. But none came. She was danced for half an hour before, by mysterious consensus, everybody took a break, without having felt any touch but the touch of her partner. Jesus Arrabal would have called it an anarchist miracle. Oedipa, with no name for it, was only demoralized. She curtsied and fled."
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LibraryThing member RebeccaAnn
Spoilers ahead.
Oedipa Maas returns home from a Tupperware party one afternoon and discovers she has been the executor, or is it executrix, of her former lover, Pierce Inverarity's will. While sorting through his many properties (he owns everything in San Narcisso), she repeatedly comes across the
While I'm sure I missed the majority of the puns and humor in this book, I still found plenty of passages that made me snicker, a few that evoked sympathy, and even a some frightening passages. When Oedipa compares Trystero to a stripper, revealing bit by bit what it's all about to her, she wonders if she'll like what she finds out in the end. Will it be satisfying to know everything or will it, like the stripper, "the dance ended, come back down the runway, its luminous stare locked to Oedipa's, smile gone malign and pitiless; bend to her alone among the desolate row of seats and begin to speak words she never wanted to hear?" Terrifying, evocative, and utterly beautiful. This was my favorite passage of the entire book.
Pynchon's prose is artwork in and of itself. Located somewhere around surreal and stream of consciousness, it reads like your own thoughts. Some passages are very focused and straightforward while others meander about, touching on multiple topics and at the end, you have to trace your way backwards to figure how to you got to where you ended. Some paragraphs are only a few words long, some take a few pages to get through. It's not consistent, but it works.
I know a lot of people I've talked to don't like the ending. True, it's not what you'd expect a book. Lot 49 has a lot of components you expect from detective fiction. There's a death, a "detective", an investigation, but Lot 49 is missing the big reveal at the end. But look back through the book. What is there in Lot 49 that you actually expect? The world is similar to that of hard-boiled detective fiction, but rather than being given a strong detective to solve the case, we're given Oedipa. She's weak, she rarely says no to anyone. In fact, she rarely speaks up at all and she cries all the time. She's not the expected heroine. And who on earth ever expected the culprit to be an underground postal system? It's a strange thing to base a conspiracy on. But the conspiracy is what makes the ending work, in my opinion. The most intriguing aspect of every conspiracy is usually the inability to find the answer. Who really killed JFK? Did Paul McCartney really die in a car accident and has a look-alike been impersonating him since 1966? It's more fun without the answers and there are certainly no answers in Lot 49. Neither the reader nor Oedipa even knows if the facts are true, which is the most terrifying aspect of the book. Reality is a projection of fantasy and we can never escape that fantasy.
No, Pynchon is not an easy read, but he is definitely a worthwhile one. Lot 49 is only 150 pages long and I recommend you at least give it a try. It's a great introduction into postmodernism and Pynchon in general.
Oedipa Maas returns home from a Tupperware party one afternoon and discovers she has been the executor, or is it executrix, of her former lover, Pierce Inverarity's will. While sorting through his many properties (he owns everything in San Narcisso), she repeatedly comes across the
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same symbol: a muted horn. As her knowledge of what this muted horn might mean - as well as the organization it stands for, Trystero - grows, so does her paranoia. Is Trystero real? Is this Inverarity's idea of a joke? Or is she going insane?While I'm sure I missed the majority of the puns and humor in this book, I still found plenty of passages that made me snicker, a few that evoked sympathy, and even a some frightening passages. When Oedipa compares Trystero to a stripper, revealing bit by bit what it's all about to her, she wonders if she'll like what she finds out in the end. Will it be satisfying to know everything or will it, like the stripper, "the dance ended, come back down the runway, its luminous stare locked to Oedipa's, smile gone malign and pitiless; bend to her alone among the desolate row of seats and begin to speak words she never wanted to hear?" Terrifying, evocative, and utterly beautiful. This was my favorite passage of the entire book.
Pynchon's prose is artwork in and of itself. Located somewhere around surreal and stream of consciousness, it reads like your own thoughts. Some passages are very focused and straightforward while others meander about, touching on multiple topics and at the end, you have to trace your way backwards to figure how to you got to where you ended. Some paragraphs are only a few words long, some take a few pages to get through. It's not consistent, but it works.
I know a lot of people I've talked to don't like the ending. True, it's not what you'd expect a book. Lot 49 has a lot of components you expect from detective fiction. There's a death, a "detective", an investigation, but Lot 49 is missing the big reveal at the end. But look back through the book. What is there in Lot 49 that you actually expect? The world is similar to that of hard-boiled detective fiction, but rather than being given a strong detective to solve the case, we're given Oedipa. She's weak, she rarely says no to anyone. In fact, she rarely speaks up at all and she cries all the time. She's not the expected heroine. And who on earth ever expected the culprit to be an underground postal system? It's a strange thing to base a conspiracy on. But the conspiracy is what makes the ending work, in my opinion. The most intriguing aspect of every conspiracy is usually the inability to find the answer. Who really killed JFK? Did Paul McCartney really die in a car accident and has a look-alike been impersonating him since 1966? It's more fun without the answers and there are certainly no answers in Lot 49. Neither the reader nor Oedipa even knows if the facts are true, which is the most terrifying aspect of the book. Reality is a projection of fantasy and we can never escape that fantasy.
No, Pynchon is not an easy read, but he is definitely a worthwhile one. Lot 49 is only 150 pages long and I recommend you at least give it a try. It's a great introduction into postmodernism and Pynchon in general.
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LibraryThing member WilfGehlen
Brilliant points of dust/ Dancing in a patch of sun/ Warms the cold within.
If William Randolph Hearst were a real estate magnate instead of a newspaper tycoon, if he had developed a city called San Narciso instead of an estate called San Simeon, if he were fictionalized as Pierce Inverarity, with a
Pierce Inverarity amassed great wealth, lost a somewhat lesser amount of wealth, and, sometime prior to the start of CL49, died, leaving his former mistress, Oedipa Maas, as his executor. We know little of him except what Oedipa remembers and what she can glean by examining his residuum, his estate. When they were together, Oedipa thought of Pierce as her knight in shining armor, who would rescue her from the gray world of Eisenhower-conservative America. She realizes that escape with him was an illusion and returned to the world of tupperware parties. We first meet her after one such party, recovering from too much kirsch. Accepting the quest, as executor, to discover the truth about Pierce, she is given another chance to escape her suburban prison.
Like Thompson, the tenacious reporter in search of Rosebud, Oedipa is a cardboard character, her real character, if there is one, hidden in the shadows. We don't relate to her, only to her mission. She finds that Inverarity owned most of San Narciso and that a shadowy organization, Tristero, is interwoven into the fabric of his legacy world and is insinuating itself into hers. Tristero is many things, but is, most importantly, another level of enigma. We really don't know what to believe about it. Historically an outlaw organization whose purpose is to supplant the state-recognized postal service, its services appeal to the downtrodden, those at the edge of society, those with a severe mistrust of the established order. It seems that Pierce Inverarity has embraced Tristero, being, as was Charlie Kane, "two people," at once a champion of the underdog and their exploiter.
Jerry Thompson never discovers Rosebud, but comes to doubt that one word, even though uttered on his deathbed, can capture the essence of the man. Oedipa Maas is still on her quest to uncover Tristero as CL49 ends, its essence unresolved, its essence still at one remove from Pierce Inverarity, but its essence poised, possibly, to open Oedipa unto herself.
The uncertainties, the lack of resolution, are intrinsic to the novel and are a reflection of life itself. Pynchon uses the concept of entropy as a motif for uncertainty. The ordered atoms in an ice crystal, the ordered desks at Yoyodyne, Oedipa's captivity, are an entropic stasis representing the rigidity of death. It requires a bit of activation energy to escape this stasis, a kick in the butt that allows entropy to prevail once again, for it to create an interesting diversity for a while, as glacier ice melts to frolic briefly as a mountain stream before becoming locked in the dismal swamps of the bayou. Pierce Inverarity's codicil may have been the boost of activation energy that allows Oedipa to escape her imprisonment, to accept her legacy. It may even carry her back to the Berkeley campus, to radical feminism, and the burning of her panoply of bras. Or not. So it goes.
If William Randolph Hearst were a real estate magnate instead of a newspaper tycoon, if he had developed a city called San Narciso instead of an estate called San Simeon, if he were fictionalized as Pierce Inverarity, with a
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passion for Tristero, instead of Charles Foster Kane, with a passion for Rosebud, would we have something like The Crying of Lot 49 instead of Citizen Kane? The enigma of the deceased "great man" and the search for the true meaning of his life, and by extension, ours, are central to both CL49 and CK and overshadow the difference in particulars.Pierce Inverarity amassed great wealth, lost a somewhat lesser amount of wealth, and, sometime prior to the start of CL49, died, leaving his former mistress, Oedipa Maas, as his executor. We know little of him except what Oedipa remembers and what she can glean by examining his residuum, his estate. When they were together, Oedipa thought of Pierce as her knight in shining armor, who would rescue her from the gray world of Eisenhower-conservative America. She realizes that escape with him was an illusion and returned to the world of tupperware parties. We first meet her after one such party, recovering from too much kirsch. Accepting the quest, as executor, to discover the truth about Pierce, she is given another chance to escape her suburban prison.
Like Thompson, the tenacious reporter in search of Rosebud, Oedipa is a cardboard character, her real character, if there is one, hidden in the shadows. We don't relate to her, only to her mission. She finds that Inverarity owned most of San Narciso and that a shadowy organization, Tristero, is interwoven into the fabric of his legacy world and is insinuating itself into hers. Tristero is many things, but is, most importantly, another level of enigma. We really don't know what to believe about it. Historically an outlaw organization whose purpose is to supplant the state-recognized postal service, its services appeal to the downtrodden, those at the edge of society, those with a severe mistrust of the established order. It seems that Pierce Inverarity has embraced Tristero, being, as was Charlie Kane, "two people," at once a champion of the underdog and their exploiter.
Jerry Thompson never discovers Rosebud, but comes to doubt that one word, even though uttered on his deathbed, can capture the essence of the man. Oedipa Maas is still on her quest to uncover Tristero as CL49 ends, its essence unresolved, its essence still at one remove from Pierce Inverarity, but its essence poised, possibly, to open Oedipa unto herself.
The uncertainties, the lack of resolution, are intrinsic to the novel and are a reflection of life itself. Pynchon uses the concept of entropy as a motif for uncertainty. The ordered atoms in an ice crystal, the ordered desks at Yoyodyne, Oedipa's captivity, are an entropic stasis representing the rigidity of death. It requires a bit of activation energy to escape this stasis, a kick in the butt that allows entropy to prevail once again, for it to create an interesting diversity for a while, as glacier ice melts to frolic briefly as a mountain stream before becoming locked in the dismal swamps of the bayou. Pierce Inverarity's codicil may have been the boost of activation energy that allows Oedipa to escape her imprisonment, to accept her legacy. It may even carry her back to the Berkeley campus, to radical feminism, and the burning of her panoply of bras. Or not. So it goes.
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LibraryThing member celephicus
Remember in "The Adams Family" where the marriage counsellor asks Morticia A. if her husband is "A hopeless layabout? A shiftless dreamer...", and Morticia answers listlessly "Not anymore"? Well Pynchon has been called complex, difficult and all the other adjectives. Well so is real life. Get used
This book is not an easy introduction to early Pynchon. It _is_ Pynchon. Stuff happens, does it make sense? Just ride it out, enjoy the scenery. And Pynchons use of inspired names for his characters, even better then Dickens'.
I love the defense contractors Yoyodyne Corp, run by Clayton Bloody Chicklitz (I am not a Yank so I had to have the pop-culture reference in his name explained to me). They appeared in the worst film ever made: "Buckeroo Banzai Across the 25th Dimension".
"Yoyodyne: The Future is Now"
Read Pynchon and despair. I had asperations to be a writer, then I read Gravity's Rainbow in 1976 and my ambition ceased: how could I even play catch up. Why he evaded the Nobel prize is still a mystery to me.
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to it. This book is not an easy introduction to early Pynchon. It _is_ Pynchon. Stuff happens, does it make sense? Just ride it out, enjoy the scenery. And Pynchons use of inspired names for his characters, even better then Dickens'.
I love the defense contractors Yoyodyne Corp, run by Clayton Bloody Chicklitz (I am not a Yank so I had to have the pop-culture reference in his name explained to me). They appeared in the worst film ever made: "Buckeroo Banzai Across the 25th Dimension".
"Yoyodyne: The Future is Now"
Read Pynchon and despair. I had asperations to be a writer, then I read Gravity's Rainbow in 1976 and my ambition ceased: how could I even play catch up. Why he evaded the Nobel prize is still a mystery to me.
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LibraryThing member poplin
I have been staring at V on my bookshelf for several years now, deterred by Pynchon’s reputation as a complex and difficult author. I decided to read The Crying of Lot 49—which has, in my mind, the rather large benefit of being approximately 400 pages shorter than V—as a means of easing into
The Crying of Lot 49 follows the story of Oedipa, a housewife who is made executrix of her ex-boyfriend’s estate. Oedipa soon begins to encounter bizarre symbols and connections, and as she digs deeper, she uncovers the Tristero organization, a centuries-old underground group with a hidden purpose. Proof of this conspiracy, however, remains beyond her grasp.
Oedipa’s quest is one in search of meaning, a hunt for an underlying plan to encompass and encapsulate every peculiar thing she encounters. She plays the part of astronomer, charting a constellation on a mass of unordered stars. The meaning she searches for eludes her, but Oedipa is convinced that Tristero is either a far-reaching conspiracy or a posthumous practical joke; that there may be no meaning to what she’s found—that everything may, in fact, be a series of unrelated occurrences—never even crosses her mind until the last few pages of the novel.
Pynchon’s underlying statement is that, like Oedipa, we cannot accept that there is no overarching meaning to the events in our lives. Like storytellers, we attempt to weave disparate episodes together, to give them meaning and gravity. Oedipa parallels her quest to that of an astronomer plotting the constellations. But the structure an astronomer imposes on the stars, while it may create superficial order, does not change the truth about the universe; it cannot create any inherent structure.
Even when Oedipa finally confronts the possibility that Tristero may be neither a conspiracy nor a practical joke, she has trouble accepting the uncertainty that follows. Through a series of analogies, Oedipa imagines events as being dichotomous: having absolute meaning or an absolute lack of meaning. Even at the end, she cannot seem to walk the middle line of uncertainty. This inability has left her mired in paranoia, alienated from her life before Tristero became a part of it.
The Crying of Lot 49 stands as (I hope) a good introduction to Pynchon’s work. Though a quick read, brevity should not be confused for clarity. Pynchon’s writing is dizzying and often confusing; I found myself reaching for the dictionary more than once, something that almost never happens during other books. The effort proved rewarding, however, and I will not hesitate to embark on V...sometime in the near future.
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Pynchon’s work. Happily, I think my plan had worked.The Crying of Lot 49 follows the story of Oedipa, a housewife who is made executrix of her ex-boyfriend’s estate. Oedipa soon begins to encounter bizarre symbols and connections, and as she digs deeper, she uncovers the Tristero organization, a centuries-old underground group with a hidden purpose. Proof of this conspiracy, however, remains beyond her grasp.
Oedipa’s quest is one in search of meaning, a hunt for an underlying plan to encompass and encapsulate every peculiar thing she encounters. She plays the part of astronomer, charting a constellation on a mass of unordered stars. The meaning she searches for eludes her, but Oedipa is convinced that Tristero is either a far-reaching conspiracy or a posthumous practical joke; that there may be no meaning to what she’s found—that everything may, in fact, be a series of unrelated occurrences—never even crosses her mind until the last few pages of the novel.
Pynchon’s underlying statement is that, like Oedipa, we cannot accept that there is no overarching meaning to the events in our lives. Like storytellers, we attempt to weave disparate episodes together, to give them meaning and gravity. Oedipa parallels her quest to that of an astronomer plotting the constellations. But the structure an astronomer imposes on the stars, while it may create superficial order, does not change the truth about the universe; it cannot create any inherent structure.
Even when Oedipa finally confronts the possibility that Tristero may be neither a conspiracy nor a practical joke, she has trouble accepting the uncertainty that follows. Through a series of analogies, Oedipa imagines events as being dichotomous: having absolute meaning or an absolute lack of meaning. Even at the end, she cannot seem to walk the middle line of uncertainty. This inability has left her mired in paranoia, alienated from her life before Tristero became a part of it.
The Crying of Lot 49 stands as (I hope) a good introduction to Pynchon’s work. Though a quick read, brevity should not be confused for clarity. Pynchon’s writing is dizzying and often confusing; I found myself reaching for the dictionary more than once, something that almost never happens during other books. The effort proved rewarding, however, and I will not hesitate to embark on V...sometime in the near future.
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LibraryThing member GarySeverance
Thomas Pynchon's books are always interesting and unpredictable. It is worth the effort of the reader to understand the details of the pages, even when they appear to be random. The reward is an increase in mental "entropy" that allows for increased connections of ideas as the book progresses. The
The Crying of Lot 49 is relatively low in entropy compared to Pynchon's most recent novel, Against the Day. In fact the author was critical of TCL49 indicating that he had forgotten important lessons learned in earlier writing. The plot is a little too transparent, giving the reader limited insightful information. It is a good introduction to the writing of Pynchon for those readers who are not used to doing research about allusions presented in novels.
The plot is like a detective story with unusual characters, a secret organization, and the sneaking suspicion that there is something more to California life in the 1960's than meets the convoluted highway surface. Paranoia is rampant with the feeling of living in a revenge play that may be real or only a narcissistic illusion. This short book is a good gateway to Pynchon's more satisfying longer books.
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main character, Oedipa is a "Maxwell demon" who seeks to control this entropy. The Crying of Lot 49 is relatively low in entropy compared to Pynchon's most recent novel, Against the Day. In fact the author was critical of TCL49 indicating that he had forgotten important lessons learned in earlier writing. The plot is a little too transparent, giving the reader limited insightful information. It is a good introduction to the writing of Pynchon for those readers who are not used to doing research about allusions presented in novels.
The plot is like a detective story with unusual characters, a secret organization, and the sneaking suspicion that there is something more to California life in the 1960's than meets the convoluted highway surface. Paranoia is rampant with the feeling of living in a revenge play that may be real or only a narcissistic illusion. This short book is a good gateway to Pynchon's more satisfying longer books.
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LibraryThing member Marse
The first time I read this novel, I was 18, a very naive and, frankly, stupid freshman. Stupid because I didn't take the time to think things through and would spout my opinion based on nothing substantial. I hated, no -- that's too strong a word, I was annoyed by this book, and I can't even
In my freshman English class, at the University of Riverside (a place I never wanted to be, but turned out to have many advantages for someone like me) we read various contemporary works from the 60-70s. The professor [or maybe he was a TA, he was probably under 30] was a thin, British man with a wispy beard, thinning hair and steel-rimmed glasses. The discussion one day was on "The Crying of Lot 49" and Oedipa Maas' dilemma. After listening to the discussion for a while, I gave my opinion that I thought she was ridiculous, and why was she obsessing about a supposed secret parallel mail system called 'Trystero'. Students and the teacher tried to make me see this as something mysterious, dangerous and subversive, but I insisted it was silly. One student whom I did not know, actually I didn't know anyone in the class, then asked me what I would think if I discovered somehow that everyone in this classroom were only pretending to be in this class just to make me think it were a real class, wouldn't that freak me out? I paused a half second and answered that it wouldn't bother me, it wasn't doing me any harm so, no I would not be 'freaked out.' The discussion of the book pretty much ended there.
That quarter I was also taking a Soviet History class because of my interest in Russia and all things Russian. The class was a bore. I knew no one in this class either, except for one guy whom I recognized from my Russian language class. He was a odd guy, as so many of my classmates in Russian class were, and I certainly never spoke with him or could remember his name. My roommate and I called him "Nanook of the North" for reasons that escape me now. Anyway, this class was torture, it was all lectures and dry readings about the Bolsheviks versus the Mensheviks versus the SRs and the Kadets. I could barely stay awake. I remember working on a required paper for this class and thinking how bad a grade I'd get on the paper, but, no worries, I would make it up on the final.
Finals week finally came, I had 3 finals on Monday and the last final, Soviet History, was on Thursday. Most people were done with all their finals by Wednesday night, so the dorm was almost empty, as was the campus. I had nothing to do but study for that final. It was supposed to start at 8am. I show up in the designated room and ... nothing. No one was there. I picked a seat and waited ... and waited. Time seemed to go so slowly. When the clock pointed to 8:15 I started to feel uneasy. Where was everyone? Am I in the wrong room? There was no one in any of the rooms in that hallway. I walked rather hurriedly to the history department. I asked the woman at the front desk if there had been a change of rooms for the Soviet history final. She said she didn't think so, and that I was probably just early. I should go back and wait for people to show up. I did so. No one was there, no one had been there. After about 10 minutes I went back to the history department. The secretary looked up and could see my concern. She said, that if the professor changed the time or the room for the final, he would have to inform the dean's office (or some such official office) of the change. She made a phone call. Then she said that no, the professor made no changes, just go back -- he may have told everyone to come a half hour to an hour later. So back I go, but feeling bewildered and slightly scared. I sat there for 20 minutes and thought about that Soviet class. I had been to every lecture, not missing a single one. How could the professor have announced a change in the time of the final and I not know about it? True, I hadn't been the most alert person in that class, but still... How could everyone know but me!?
I remembered that student's question in English class about how I would feel if everyone was just pretending to be in class just to fool me and my heart sunk. Is that even possible? How could that be organized? and why?! I began to sweat. Did that student do this just to prove to me how inane my opinion was? But how? There was no crossover between the students in the English class and the students in Soviet History, how would they organize something like this? The only person that I recognized from either class was "Nanook" from Russian class, but he never seemed to notice me at all, certainly never spoke to me and why? why? why? I began to think everything I ever thought was true, was merely conjecture; that I was not living life, but was merely part of some vast experiment. I began to panic. I ran to the History Department. By this time, the other secretary had arrived. The first woman took a look at my face, and explained how I'd been to the office 3 times now looking for the final classroom. The second secretary looked at me and said, "They've already had their final." My face blanched. "Did you miss some of the sessions?" "No! I was at all the lectures!" (I was almost crying by then.) "Well, it was last week." "How is that possible?!" "Did you turn in your paper?" "Yes!" "Well, that WAS the final." My jaw dropped. I was utterly stunned. I walked back to the dorm in a daze. I looked through my notebook and found the syllabus for the class, and there it was at the bottom of the sheet. --NO Final Exam. The term paper is the final.--
I always felt that I needed to apologize to that student in English class, to the entire class and the teacher for being so sure of myself, of being such an ass, of not being open to the possibility of multiple worlds all around us. For that realization I thank "The Crying of Lot 49". I don't know why I waited so long to reread this book, it is not long. I enjoyed every bit of it this time and recommend you approach with an open mind.
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remember why, even though there were scenes from the book that stuck in my head: the scene where Oedipa puts on every piece of clothing she has before she plays strip poker with the probate lawyer, the scene at the Deaf convention where everyone is dancing, but to different music, unheard by anybody and the final scene that instantly came to mind when I got to the end of Umberto Eco's Foucault's Pendulum, where a the protagonist is similarly sitting and awaiting an answer. By the end of the quarter I became aware of how truly prescient this book was to my own life. I've reread the book now, 40 years later, and have reassessed my first impressions. This is not so much of a review as much as it is an anecdote of how a book, read at the right time, can change your perspective on the world. There may be a spoiler or two, so be warned.In my freshman English class, at the University of Riverside (a place I never wanted to be, but turned out to have many advantages for someone like me) we read various contemporary works from the 60-70s. The professor [or maybe he was a TA, he was probably under 30] was a thin, British man with a wispy beard, thinning hair and steel-rimmed glasses. The discussion one day was on "The Crying of Lot 49" and Oedipa Maas' dilemma. After listening to the discussion for a while, I gave my opinion that I thought she was ridiculous, and why was she obsessing about a supposed secret parallel mail system called 'Trystero'. Students and the teacher tried to make me see this as something mysterious, dangerous and subversive, but I insisted it was silly. One student whom I did not know, actually I didn't know anyone in the class, then asked me what I would think if I discovered somehow that everyone in this classroom were only pretending to be in this class just to make me think it were a real class, wouldn't that freak me out? I paused a half second and answered that it wouldn't bother me, it wasn't doing me any harm so, no I would not be 'freaked out.' The discussion of the book pretty much ended there.
That quarter I was also taking a Soviet History class because of my interest in Russia and all things Russian. The class was a bore. I knew no one in this class either, except for one guy whom I recognized from my Russian language class. He was a odd guy, as so many of my classmates in Russian class were, and I certainly never spoke with him or could remember his name. My roommate and I called him "Nanook of the North" for reasons that escape me now. Anyway, this class was torture, it was all lectures and dry readings about the Bolsheviks versus the Mensheviks versus the SRs and the Kadets. I could barely stay awake. I remember working on a required paper for this class and thinking how bad a grade I'd get on the paper, but, no worries, I would make it up on the final.
Finals week finally came, I had 3 finals on Monday and the last final, Soviet History, was on Thursday. Most people were done with all their finals by Wednesday night, so the dorm was almost empty, as was the campus. I had nothing to do but study for that final. It was supposed to start at 8am. I show up in the designated room and ... nothing. No one was there. I picked a seat and waited ... and waited. Time seemed to go so slowly. When the clock pointed to 8:15 I started to feel uneasy. Where was everyone? Am I in the wrong room? There was no one in any of the rooms in that hallway. I walked rather hurriedly to the history department. I asked the woman at the front desk if there had been a change of rooms for the Soviet history final. She said she didn't think so, and that I was probably just early. I should go back and wait for people to show up. I did so. No one was there, no one had been there. After about 10 minutes I went back to the history department. The secretary looked up and could see my concern. She said, that if the professor changed the time or the room for the final, he would have to inform the dean's office (or some such official office) of the change. She made a phone call. Then she said that no, the professor made no changes, just go back -- he may have told everyone to come a half hour to an hour later. So back I go, but feeling bewildered and slightly scared. I sat there for 20 minutes and thought about that Soviet class. I had been to every lecture, not missing a single one. How could the professor have announced a change in the time of the final and I not know about it? True, I hadn't been the most alert person in that class, but still... How could everyone know but me!?
I remembered that student's question in English class about how I would feel if everyone was just pretending to be in class just to fool me and my heart sunk. Is that even possible? How could that be organized? and why?! I began to sweat. Did that student do this just to prove to me how inane my opinion was? But how? There was no crossover between the students in the English class and the students in Soviet History, how would they organize something like this? The only person that I recognized from either class was "Nanook" from Russian class, but he never seemed to notice me at all, certainly never spoke to me and why? why? why? I began to think everything I ever thought was true, was merely conjecture; that I was not living life, but was merely part of some vast experiment. I began to panic. I ran to the History Department. By this time, the other secretary had arrived. The first woman took a look at my face, and explained how I'd been to the office 3 times now looking for the final classroom. The second secretary looked at me and said, "They've already had their final." My face blanched. "Did you miss some of the sessions?" "No! I was at all the lectures!" (I was almost crying by then.) "Well, it was last week." "How is that possible?!" "Did you turn in your paper?" "Yes!" "Well, that WAS the final." My jaw dropped. I was utterly stunned. I walked back to the dorm in a daze. I looked through my notebook and found the syllabus for the class, and there it was at the bottom of the sheet. --NO Final Exam. The term paper is the final.--
I always felt that I needed to apologize to that student in English class, to the entire class and the teacher for being so sure of myself, of being such an ass, of not being open to the possibility of multiple worlds all around us. For that realization I thank "The Crying of Lot 49". I don't know why I waited so long to reread this book, it is not long. I enjoyed every bit of it this time and recommend you approach with an open mind.
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LibraryThing member brenzi
Are you old enough to remember the sixties? I certainly remember them very well but sometimes I wonder if I was living in some sort of parallel universe because the sixties I was a part of wasn’t nearly as chaotic and drug-fueled as the one that is most often portrayed in books and movies. This
one of the most politically and socially turbulent decades in U.S. history: the rise of the drug culture, the Vietnam War, the rock revolution, as well as the birth of numerous social welfare programs, John F. Kennedy's assassination, Martin Luther King's assassination, Robert kennedy’s assassination, Civil Rights, and, to some extent, women's rights. The novel uses this explosion of cultural occurrences, depicting a dramatically fragmented society. But of course, being a post modern novel, it doesn’t come right out and say this in any way. No it’s all done through symbolism, substitution, puns and plays on words, and smoke and mirrors. After a few pages the reader is left to wonder, ”Is the protagonist on drugs? Are all the other characters on drugs? Maybe I’m on drugs, because none of this is making any sense.
Oedipa Maas comes home from a Tupperware Party (remember those?) one day to find a letter naming her executor of the will left by a former lover, Pierce Inverarity (don’t underestimate the power of names in this novel). In the course of fulfilling her duties in this regard, she discovers what appears to be another functioning postal system, known as Tristero, unknown to her (really to any of us) prior to this time. (Here, Pynchon was foretelling the rise of UPS, Fed-Ex and DLS.) Part of the use of the postal system is the requirement that anyone using it is required to mail a letter once a week even if they have nothing to say. (Perhaps this requirement could save our present postal system.) Oedipa seems to go about completing her task mostly in a drug-fueled haze. Not that it matters. Everyone around her is in the same state. At least, that’s the only plausible explanation for all the things happening that, otherwise, made no sense at all. At any rate, her world systematically falls apart as she goes about resolving the issues involved with the will.
Along the way she meets Randolph Dribbelette, Dr. Hilarity, her husband Mucho (a disk jockey at radio station KCUF!), Tony Jaguar, Mike Fallopian----on and on, names with other names, names with other meanings.
OK enough. I couldn’t make heads or tails of the narrative. This is not the kind of straight forward story that I enjoy. Who wants to work so hard to understand what the author is trying to say? I like to lay back and sink into a deeply satisfying novel and this wasn’t it.
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book, which was written in 1965, is all about one of the most politically and socially turbulent decades in U.S. history: the rise of the drug culture, the Vietnam War, the rock revolution, as well as the birth of numerous social welfare programs, John F. Kennedy's assassination, Martin Luther King's assassination, Robert kennedy’s assassination, Civil Rights, and, to some extent, women's rights. The novel uses this explosion of cultural occurrences, depicting a dramatically fragmented society. But of course, being a post modern novel, it doesn’t come right out and say this in any way. No it’s all done through symbolism, substitution, puns and plays on words, and smoke and mirrors. After a few pages the reader is left to wonder, ”Is the protagonist on drugs? Are all the other characters on drugs? Maybe I’m on drugs, because none of this is making any sense.
Oedipa Maas comes home from a Tupperware Party (remember those?) one day to find a letter naming her executor of the will left by a former lover, Pierce Inverarity (don’t underestimate the power of names in this novel). In the course of fulfilling her duties in this regard, she discovers what appears to be another functioning postal system, known as Tristero, unknown to her (really to any of us) prior to this time. (Here, Pynchon was foretelling the rise of UPS, Fed-Ex and DLS.) Part of the use of the postal system is the requirement that anyone using it is required to mail a letter once a week even if they have nothing to say. (Perhaps this requirement could save our present postal system.) Oedipa seems to go about completing her task mostly in a drug-fueled haze. Not that it matters. Everyone around her is in the same state. At least, that’s the only plausible explanation for all the things happening that, otherwise, made no sense at all. At any rate, her world systematically falls apart as she goes about resolving the issues involved with the will.
Along the way she meets Randolph Dribbelette, Dr. Hilarity, her husband Mucho (a disk jockey at radio station KCUF!), Tony Jaguar, Mike Fallopian----on and on, names with other names, names with other meanings.
OK enough. I couldn’t make heads or tails of the narrative. This is not the kind of straight forward story that I enjoy. Who wants to work so hard to understand what the author is trying to say? I like to lay back and sink into a deeply satisfying novel and this wasn’t it.
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LibraryThing member diovival
Being considered a great novel by many other people doesn't encourage me to grant this book anything beyond the one star it has earned. I did not like this book. It had potential. I kept reading despite the fact that it consistently put me to sleep. Pynchon dragged me along...he dangled the
What a let down. Oedipa Maas becomes the co-executor of her late boyfriend's estate, begins to see the signs of an underground postal system everywhere and yada yada yada THE END.
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possibility of discovery. I felt that if I only kept reading I'd find out the point of it all. And then the book ended. That was it!? I stared at that last sentence in utter disbelief. What a let down. Oedipa Maas becomes the co-executor of her late boyfriend's estate, begins to see the signs of an underground postal system everywhere and yada yada yada THE END.
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LibraryThing member Michael.Pryles
Reading Pynchon is like being invited to a fancy restaurant that every reputable critic claims is transcendent, then being served expired, moldy Lean Cuisine while the chef giggles at you from the kitchen and darts out of sight every time you turn toward him to mouth the words, "What the hell,
I'm not going to read Gravity's Rainbow.
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man?!" Meanwhile, the other diners are spending more time telling you that your palate isn't developed enough to appreciate the meal, even though they've hardly touched their own plates. I'm not going to read Gravity's Rainbow.
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LibraryThing member billmcn
Unlike the rest of Pynchon's books, this one is short—really more like a novella. I like him a little better when he gives himself a little more space to stretch out, but this is still an excellent paranoid comedy that has over time become a fascinating snapshot of 1960s America. And I still
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can't use a public wastebasket without saying to myself, "We Await Silent Tystero's Empire." Show Less
LibraryThing member LynnB
This is the story of Oedipa Maas, a Californian housewife, who is made co-executor of an ex-boyfriend's will. It's a satire, written in 1965. Since I was born in the last 1950s, I guess a lot of the references escaped me. I found the book hard to get into and not very interesting.
That being said, I
That being said, I
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can see why many people would like it. I recognized Oedipa's quest to understand the world and her struggle to accept -- maybe -- that there was no real meaning in life. And, there was something in the writing that made me keep going, although I'm not sure I could have finished the book had it been longer. Show Less
LibraryThing member OscarWilde87
The place is California. The time is the 1960s. Oedipa Maas is named co-executrix of the estate of the late Pierce Inverarity, a real estate mogul who has left behind a tangled web of an estate that needs serious sorting out. Not only is Oedipa reluctant to do this job for her former lover, but she
The question of what is true, of what or who is credible and trustworthy, is one of the central themes in Thomas Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49. As soon as Oedipa stumbles upon 'evidence' of the Tristero (or Trystero) mail system, that is clues on counterfeit stamps, such as a misprint in the sentence to report suspicious mail to "your potsmaster" or a muted horn watermark on those stamps, she tries to find out more and more about this system. In the course of her quest she meets with an expert on stamps, watches a play where the Trystero is mentioned, talks to the director of the play and a professor who is an expert on the script and even meets people who send their mail by the Tristero system. However, neither Oedipa nor the reader knows whether everything she is told is speculation or whether it is evidence of a postal conspiracy that seems to span the whole globe. It is this characteristically postmodern questioning of truth and reality - the story involves the use and abuse of large quantities of alcohol and LSD with some characters - that made the novel an interesting read for me. I found myself following the advice of a character in the book to sort out what Oedipa actually knows for a fact and what she has simply been told without further proof in order to figure out whether what she encountered might be true or not.
One obvious thing you will note as a reader is that Pynchon clearly plays with the names in the novel. There are many references to psychology and psychoanalysis, for instance. Oedipa and San Narciso are only two of many of those references. San Narciso as the place of Pierce's estate when a narcissist seems to have a strong personality on the outside, but lacks a core self on the inside? A band called 'The Paranoids'? Pierce Inverarity, who might have uncovered a global conspiracy ('pierced' it?). A pychiatrist giving out LSD to his patients to make them happier called Dr Hilarious. With a closer reading you could probably concentrate only on the names and access another level of Pynchon's novel. However, I was so focused on the truth issue and getting a grasp on what I was reading, that I did not particularly try to analyze the names. This might, however, be something to pay attention to when re-reading the novel.
In our modern times where the line of news and fake news becomes ever harder to draw, Pynchon's novel is probably a very fitting read. While I would recommend the novel, I would also do so with a word of caution. Pynchon's prose, while beautiful, is not always easy to follow. His sentence structure often varies from what you would expect in order to emphasize certain parts of the narrative. Once you get accustomed to that, the novel is not that hard to read. The metaphorical language is actually one of the novel's strong suits ("What the road really was, she fancied, was this hypodermic needle, inserted somewhere ahead into the vein of a freeway, a vein nourishing the mainliner L.A., keeping it happy, coherent, protected from pain, or whatever passes, with a city, for pain. But were Oedipa some single melted crystal of urban horse, L.A., really, would be no less turned on for her absence." (p.15)). To my mind The Crying of Lot 49 is a good introduction to the works of Pynchon because the plot seems to be relatively straightforward and the novel is rater short. Personally, as this was my first Pynchon, I am now inclined to attack another of his works. 4 stars for a really good and thought-provoking novel.
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also feels highly incapable of doing it. Luckily, the other executor of the estate is a lawyer, Metzger. Luckily? That remains to be seen. When Oedipa tells her husband Mucho, a former car salesman turned radio DJ, that she is going to leave for San Narciso to deal with her task, their relationship seems to be somewhat tense. Both seem to have their problems and Oedipa sees a psychiatrist, Dr Hilarious, on a regular basis. Metzger and Oedipa meet in a motel room where they have a lot of alcohol and eventually sleep together. As soon as they set out to do research about Inverarity's estate, Oedipa is confronted with a series of 'coincidences' involving an underground postal delivery system called the Tristero. She starts a quest to find out what lies behind the Tristero and soon seems to be getting closer to the truth. Or is she?The question of what is true, of what or who is credible and trustworthy, is one of the central themes in Thomas Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49. As soon as Oedipa stumbles upon 'evidence' of the Tristero (or Trystero) mail system, that is clues on counterfeit stamps, such as a misprint in the sentence to report suspicious mail to "your potsmaster" or a muted horn watermark on those stamps, she tries to find out more and more about this system. In the course of her quest she meets with an expert on stamps, watches a play where the Trystero is mentioned, talks to the director of the play and a professor who is an expert on the script and even meets people who send their mail by the Tristero system. However, neither Oedipa nor the reader knows whether everything she is told is speculation or whether it is evidence of a postal conspiracy that seems to span the whole globe. It is this characteristically postmodern questioning of truth and reality - the story involves the use and abuse of large quantities of alcohol and LSD with some characters - that made the novel an interesting read for me. I found myself following the advice of a character in the book to sort out what Oedipa actually knows for a fact and what she has simply been told without further proof in order to figure out whether what she encountered might be true or not.
One obvious thing you will note as a reader is that Pynchon clearly plays with the names in the novel. There are many references to psychology and psychoanalysis, for instance. Oedipa and San Narciso are only two of many of those references. San Narciso as the place of Pierce's estate when a narcissist seems to have a strong personality on the outside, but lacks a core self on the inside? A band called 'The Paranoids'? Pierce Inverarity, who might have uncovered a global conspiracy ('pierced' it?). A pychiatrist giving out LSD to his patients to make them happier called Dr Hilarious. With a closer reading you could probably concentrate only on the names and access another level of Pynchon's novel. However, I was so focused on the truth issue and getting a grasp on what I was reading, that I did not particularly try to analyze the names. This might, however, be something to pay attention to when re-reading the novel.
In our modern times where the line of news and fake news becomes ever harder to draw, Pynchon's novel is probably a very fitting read. While I would recommend the novel, I would also do so with a word of caution. Pynchon's prose, while beautiful, is not always easy to follow. His sentence structure often varies from what you would expect in order to emphasize certain parts of the narrative. Once you get accustomed to that, the novel is not that hard to read. The metaphorical language is actually one of the novel's strong suits ("What the road really was, she fancied, was this hypodermic needle, inserted somewhere ahead into the vein of a freeway, a vein nourishing the mainliner L.A., keeping it happy, coherent, protected from pain, or whatever passes, with a city, for pain. But were Oedipa some single melted crystal of urban horse, L.A., really, would be no less turned on for her absence." (p.15)). To my mind The Crying of Lot 49 is a good introduction to the works of Pynchon because the plot seems to be relatively straightforward and the novel is rater short. Personally, as this was my first Pynchon, I am now inclined to attack another of his works. 4 stars for a really good and thought-provoking novel.
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LibraryThing member Karlus
With apologies to all of the people I know who love Thomas Pynchon, I have to say he is just not for me. I have browsed though his books on the shelf at Borders several times and none have ever appealed to me. Recently though I decided to try The Crying of Lot 49, which has been described as his
I'll be as generous as I can and say that the book, now quite old, must have been written for a different generation than my own. Perhaps neither the book nor I have aged gracefully, but I found the humor to be adolescent at best, although puerile also comes to mind for some. Drunken college students having reached the stage of giggling at inanities are a possibilty as well.
The protagonist is Oedipa Maas, for an auditory pun, Mizz. Maas, at one point, while her husband calls her Oed for short. Oxford English Dictionary, get it? The supposedly humorous names for characters and places continue with a Dr. Fallopian, Genghis Cohen, Emory Bortz, and Stanley Koteks, to name a few people, as well as the city of San Narcisco in California, which has a North Beach section just as its punned namesake does. Add in a radio station, KCUF, and spell it backwards for real rib-tickling merriment.
Passages which attempt to describe the drab sameness of the then smog-covered California urban sprawl are simply limp to my ear, and not trenchant as I suspect the author intended. Any number of hard-boiled detective writers have done it better. I've lived there and seen it, so even as plain description, the author's narrative falls flat and neither captures nor parodies the actual reality. The story develops in essentially linear sequence, and the written style strikes me as undistinguished, despite some long sentences. It has been seen and much better done, and comparisons to Joyce, as on the back cover, are a plain travesty.
The book devolves into Mizz Oedipa's quest to uncover the workings of a supposed underground postal system that is competing with Uncle Sam's mail and using containers labelled W.A.S.T.E. as its letter drops. Finally, Mizz Maas was not an interesting cut of cardboard, nor was her quest of any interest either.
I put the book down about 2/3 of the way through, completely disinterested by then in whatever ending it might have, while fully realizing that many regard it as a work of hypermodern genius. If some say parody instead, I say poor parody.
Two stars is exceedingly merciful; one star is more how I feel about it.
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most approachable, but have now put it down.I'll be as generous as I can and say that the book, now quite old, must have been written for a different generation than my own. Perhaps neither the book nor I have aged gracefully, but I found the humor to be adolescent at best, although puerile also comes to mind for some. Drunken college students having reached the stage of giggling at inanities are a possibilty as well.
The protagonist is Oedipa Maas, for an auditory pun, Mizz. Maas, at one point, while her husband calls her Oed for short. Oxford English Dictionary, get it? The supposedly humorous names for characters and places continue with a Dr. Fallopian, Genghis Cohen, Emory Bortz, and Stanley Koteks, to name a few people, as well as the city of San Narcisco in California, which has a North Beach section just as its punned namesake does. Add in a radio station, KCUF, and spell it backwards for real rib-tickling merriment.
Passages which attempt to describe the drab sameness of the then smog-covered California urban sprawl are simply limp to my ear, and not trenchant as I suspect the author intended. Any number of hard-boiled detective writers have done it better. I've lived there and seen it, so even as plain description, the author's narrative falls flat and neither captures nor parodies the actual reality. The story develops in essentially linear sequence, and the written style strikes me as undistinguished, despite some long sentences. It has been seen and much better done, and comparisons to Joyce, as on the back cover, are a plain travesty.
The book devolves into Mizz Oedipa's quest to uncover the workings of a supposed underground postal system that is competing with Uncle Sam's mail and using containers labelled W.A.S.T.E. as its letter drops. Finally, Mizz Maas was not an interesting cut of cardboard, nor was her quest of any interest either.
I put the book down about 2/3 of the way through, completely disinterested by then in whatever ending it might have, while fully realizing that many regard it as a work of hypermodern genius. If some say parody instead, I say poor parody.
Two stars is exceedingly merciful; one star is more how I feel about it.
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LibraryThing member gloomp
"The Crying of Lot 49" is rather like a van, speeding wildly along a winding coastal road. At every twist (and there are many), the van almost falls of the edge, into a sea of unreadable mediocrity. But with the sure hand of Pynchon at the wheel, it never quite does. Instead, it ends up being a
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wild and enjoyable ride. Show Less
LibraryThing member downstreamer
This is an excellent starting point for entry-level Pynchon readers, featuring all the wonderful themes which he develops in his other novels, only shorter! Paranoia, identity, waste, betrayal, mass media - it's all here in a rollicking good read.
LibraryThing member myfanwy
The Crying of Lot 49 gives you every bit as much flavor of Pynchon's remarkable writing style, without the self-indulgent obsessions that makes Gravity's Rainbow such a slog. Pynchon really is remarkable. In a slim novel he creates a mass of characters, a secret society, a conspiracy theory going
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back hundreds of years, and an arc that leads our heroine from a safe life of mundanity into a whirlwind of paranoia. It's kind of like The Illuminatus trilogy condensed into 140 pages. Pynchon must have taken quite a lot of drugs, but either way, it makes for a wild psychedelic journey. Recommended! Show Less
LibraryThing member HarryMacDonald
Quite simply the best of Pynchon's books, and the most successful in what he called "projecting a world". It's worth mentioning that the Bantam paperback is disfigured by the most incomprehensibly stupid, irrelevant, and just plain ugly cover in recent decades, even surpassing the excrescences on
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the paperback editions of Dan Pinkwater's LIZARD MUSIC and the Woolf-Sewell collection NEW QUESTS FOR CORVO. Show Less
LibraryThing member BluegeneBookie
I read this book in college nearly 30 years ago - I really really really want to understand the coolness of this book to be part of the "in" crowd. But like "Gravity's Rainbow", I just don't get Thomas Pynchon.
LibraryThing member gbill
A disappointment. The main thread through the novel, the “Tristero system” conspiracy relating to mail delivery through history, is ultimately ridiculous. It’s all over the map, and a bit like listening to a Jazz musician high on something. There are scenes which “hit”, like the strip
Quotes:
On management:
“In the early ‘60’s a Yoyodyne executive living near L.A. and located someplace in the corporate root-system above supervisor but below vice-president, found himself, at age 39, automated out of a job. Having been since age 7 rigidly instructed in an eschatology that pointed nowhere but to a presidency and death, trained to do absolutely nothing but sign his name to specialized memoranda he could not begin to understand and to take blame for the running-amok of specialized programs that failed for specialized reasons he had to have explained to him, the executive’s first thoughts were naturally of suicide.”
On poverty:
“Yet at least he had believed in the cars. Maybe to excess: how could he not, seeing people poorer than him come in, Negro, Mexican, cracker, a parade seven days a week, bringing the most godawful of trade-ins: motorized, metal extensions of themselves, of their families and what their whole lives must be like, out there so naked for anybody, a stranger like himself, to look at, frame cockeyed, rusty underneath, fender repainted in a shade just off enough to depress the value, if not Mucho himself, inside smelling hopelessly of children, supermarket booze, two, sometimes three generations of cigarette smokers, or only of dust – and when the cars were swept out you had to look at the actual residue of these lives…”
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poker game Oedipa Maas finds herself in near the beginning of the book, and occasional humor in the satire of life in the 60s which works, but unfortunately these are few and far between. It’s pretty sad when you think Dan Brown could have helped matters. Mercifully only 152 pages.Quotes:
On management:
“In the early ‘60’s a Yoyodyne executive living near L.A. and located someplace in the corporate root-system above supervisor but below vice-president, found himself, at age 39, automated out of a job. Having been since age 7 rigidly instructed in an eschatology that pointed nowhere but to a presidency and death, trained to do absolutely nothing but sign his name to specialized memoranda he could not begin to understand and to take blame for the running-amok of specialized programs that failed for specialized reasons he had to have explained to him, the executive’s first thoughts were naturally of suicide.”
On poverty:
“Yet at least he had believed in the cars. Maybe to excess: how could he not, seeing people poorer than him come in, Negro, Mexican, cracker, a parade seven days a week, bringing the most godawful of trade-ins: motorized, metal extensions of themselves, of their families and what their whole lives must be like, out there so naked for anybody, a stranger like himself, to look at, frame cockeyed, rusty underneath, fender repainted in a shade just off enough to depress the value, if not Mucho himself, inside smelling hopelessly of children, supermarket booze, two, sometimes three generations of cigarette smokers, or only of dust – and when the cars were swept out you had to look at the actual residue of these lives…”
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LibraryThing member neurodrew
A 1965 novel, about a mysterious will, the executor a woman named Oedipa Maas, who was a lover of the will maker, Pierce Inverarity. Inverarity owned many square miles of Southern California, Yoyodyne, a defense contractor, and much else. The story is about Oedipa’s search into the mystery of the
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illicit and shadowy alternate mail system, the competitors of medieval Thurn and Taxis mail service, possibly killing off many persons involved. Lot 49 is the auction lot of the odd stamps under the gavel at the end of the book. There are some hilarious spots, the descriptions are baroque, but somewhat dated. Read over a weekend or two. Show Less
LibraryThing member Narshkite
I first read this book in my 20's, and loved it for the sheer hilarity. How can you not love a stamp dealer named Genghis Cohen? An actor/lawyer named Manny DiPresso also worked for me. Pynchon's manic erudition and love of the absurd are unmatched in this book, and in pretty much every book he
Let's start with Pynchon's technical skills. This is Pynchon's second book after the brilliant V, both published when he was in his 20's. How he had already developed this level of brilliance so early I do not know. Obviously he has raw talent and an imagination unlike any other, and also obviously the man worked hard to develop a unique, precise, yet surprising style. His books are symphonic in a way I see in very few writers -- Murakami comes to mind as another who does this, creates sonatas, and cantatas and fugues in novel form (though Murakami and Pynchon are very differnt writers.) But also, Pynchon books are filled with brilliant and challenging allusions to other writers' works, and I find it baffling that this 20-something understood the form and content of the works of so many writers well enough to simultaneously honor and subvert their work. The structure of his characters' journeys whether our hero here, Oedipa Maas. or Mason & Dixon (in the novel of that name) or any of the others before and after those books will bring to mind the classics. This is very much an Odyssey, sans gods but with aspects of American life no less mercurial than any god that play fast and loose with our hero. (Our sirens are a group of moptop Beatles wannabes named Leonard, Serge, Miles and Dean - presumably honoring Cohen, Gainsourg, Davis and Martin, which totally cracked me up.) In this book I also saw clear allusions to Moby Dick, The Sound and the Fury, and many others that blur the real and fantastical. It is all just dazzling. But with all that dazzle it never stops being fun.
This is pretty brilliant and i went back and forth between a 4 and 5 star. In the end I went with GR 4 (LT 4.5) for two reasons. It is not as brilliant as some other Pynchon books, including V, which immediately preceded this. More importantly, in the end, I felt like some viewpoint other than Oedipa's would have been helpful here.
One last thing I want to mention related to the Oedipa-centric story: This came out in 1966, and trust me there is plenty of objectifying of women going on, but also the only person whose perspective really matters is Oedipa, a smart and adventurous hot housewife from central California. The men around her are toxic assholes mostly but also this is not really their story -- the men are the side characters. I found this pretty surprising for a book written by a straight man at that time. I also found interesting that the reader sees the men are assholes and often wants better from them. But Oedipa expects nothing from any of the men. They behave the way they do and while she wishes one would ride alongside her, she doesn't expect it. She expects that she will have to be the one to take care of things. There are no knights in shining armor here, just men with power and a woman who has to get things done despite being powerless.
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writes, even the lighter fare. It is a little much for some (most?) people, but if I am in the right frame of mind I am more than happy to turn myself over to Pynchon mind, body and soul for the length of a novel. And I think you have to do that to enjoy Pynchon's work, you have to cede control and go with it because Pynchon's world is endlessly complex and the author himself is the only GPS that is going to get you out of that maze sane, sated, and flushed with pleasure. When I cede control I need to know the recipient of my trust deserves it. Pynchon? Yeah. Totally.Let's start with Pynchon's technical skills. This is Pynchon's second book after the brilliant V, both published when he was in his 20's. How he had already developed this level of brilliance so early I do not know. Obviously he has raw talent and an imagination unlike any other, and also obviously the man worked hard to develop a unique, precise, yet surprising style. His books are symphonic in a way I see in very few writers -- Murakami comes to mind as another who does this, creates sonatas, and cantatas and fugues in novel form (though Murakami and Pynchon are very differnt writers.) But also, Pynchon books are filled with brilliant and challenging allusions to other writers' works, and I find it baffling that this 20-something understood the form and content of the works of so many writers well enough to simultaneously honor and subvert their work. The structure of his characters' journeys whether our hero here, Oedipa Maas. or Mason & Dixon (in the novel of that name) or any of the others before and after those books will bring to mind the classics. This is very much an Odyssey, sans gods but with aspects of American life no less mercurial than any god that play fast and loose with our hero. (Our sirens are a group of moptop Beatles wannabes named Leonard, Serge, Miles and Dean - presumably honoring Cohen, Gainsourg, Davis and Martin, which totally cracked me up.) In this book I also saw clear allusions to Moby Dick, The Sound and the Fury, and many others that blur the real and fantastical. It is all just dazzling. But with all that dazzle it never stops being fun.
This is pretty brilliant and i went back and forth between a 4 and 5 star. In the end I went with GR 4 (LT 4.5) for two reasons. It is not as brilliant as some other Pynchon books, including V, which immediately preceded this. More importantly, in the end, I felt like some viewpoint other than Oedipa's would have been helpful here.
One last thing I want to mention related to the Oedipa-centric story: This came out in 1966, and trust me there is plenty of objectifying of women going on, but also the only person whose perspective really matters is Oedipa, a smart and adventurous hot housewife from central California. The men around her are toxic assholes mostly but also this is not really their story -- the men are the side characters. I found this pretty surprising for a book written by a straight man at that time. I also found interesting that the reader sees the men are assholes and often wants better from them. But Oedipa expects nothing from any of the men. They behave the way they do and while she wishes one would ride alongside her, she doesn't expect it. She expects that she will have to be the one to take care of things. There are no knights in shining armor here, just men with power and a woman who has to get things done despite being powerless.
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LibraryThing member araridan
Basically I finished this book with the feeling, "what was the point of that?" I know Pynchon himself has disowned the novel, but I can't help wonder what possesses someone to create a completely random ridiculous mystery; one that twists some aspects of actual historical organizations or materials
That being said, I was entertained. It's funny to know about Radiohead's merchandise shop being named W.A.S.T.E. in correlation with the underground postal service in this book. At times I also began seeing this book's influence on David Foster Wallace's "Infinite Jest" (which I hated, and could only finish about a fifth of that book). However, when I started seeing some similarities, I also felt reassured that Pynchon never gets as convoluted or pretentious as Wallace's attempt. Anyway, it was a quick, odd little read and perhaps I'm just not picking up on a deeper level. For me it was simply a quirky, but fun mystery.
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and then leaves the protagonist wondering whether she's perhaps just losing her mind. That being said, I was entertained. It's funny to know about Radiohead's merchandise shop being named W.A.S.T.E. in correlation with the underground postal service in this book. At times I also began seeing this book's influence on David Foster Wallace's "Infinite Jest" (which I hated, and could only finish about a fifth of that book). However, when I started seeing some similarities, I also felt reassured that Pynchon never gets as convoluted or pretentious as Wallace's attempt. Anyway, it was a quick, odd little read and perhaps I'm just not picking up on a deeper level. For me it was simply a quirky, but fun mystery.
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LibraryThing member Rynooo
Not sure if I enjoyed it - I found it rather laborious and it was a relief to get to the end. It's definitely put me off reading Pynchon's longer works. I quite like his convoluted style but the meandering is a bit over the top and found myself doing double-takes at the endless quick-fire,
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mid-paragraph scene changes. Show Less
LibraryThing member stevebosman
Studying "The Crying of Lot 49" was the highlight of my O-level English Literature. Despite being a short book (127 pages), very few people felt that they got it, I was one of the few but of course I may have been wrong.
Subjects
Awards
Language
Original publication date
1966-06-01
Physical description
192 p.; 7.48 inches
ISBN
006091307X / 9780060913076
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