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Pynchon’s Symbolism
Thomas Pynchons powerfully symbolic language gets us beneath the rhetoric of our  pretensions By Rick Moody
THE novelist Robert Coover, speaking of influences in American fiction, once remarkedthat apprentices of his generation found themselves (in the 1950s) grappling with twovery different models of what the novel might be. One, Coover said, was Saul Bellow'srealistic if picaresque Adventures of Augie March; the other was William Gaddis'sencyclopedic Recognitions. Writers my age (mid-thirties), however, don't have the luxuryof a choice. Our problem is how to confront the influence of a single novelist: ThomasPynchon.Despite the reputation of Pynchon's magnum opus, Gravity's Rainbow (1973), many of my contemporaries came to him through his earlier work. His first novel, V. (1963), ismostly concerned with the search by one Herbert Stencil for a woman -- or place, or concept -- referred to in his father's journals simply by this initial. The action of the novel-- which also takes up Stencil's father, a network of European spies, and a Whole Sick Crew of American Navy wastrels -- goes as far afield as turn-of-the-century Egypt,southwest Africa during the First World War, and Malta after the Second World War,dealing along the way with contemporary Americana up and down the Eastern Seaboard.V.is ripe with the kind of dense, symbolic imagery we associate with poets -- with T. S.Eliot and Wallace Stevens (Gravity's Rainbow likewise caroms off Rilke and Dickinson)-- and with the loose, improvisatory language of beat writing. It is by turns hilarious,slow, and utterly mesmerizing.Portions of V. cannibalize the author's student work, particularly the two stories "Low-lands" and "Under the Rose." (Pynchon's later novel Vineland, published in 1990, opensdramatically -- with a character leaping through a storefront window -- in an image liftedfrom V.: "Here [was] one potential berserk studying the best technique for jumpingthrough a plate glass window.") Repetitions haunt the entire oeuvre, so much so thatPynchon's work seems to exhibit a sort of "conceptual continuity," as the composer Frank Zappa named it, wherein each work builds on thematic and formal innovations -- andeven the raw material -- of prior efforts.Another example: The Crying of Lot 49 (1966), Pynchon's masterpiece in miniature, likeV. takes as its form a search. In Lot 49 the quester is a woman with the unlikely name of Oedipa Maas, who, engaged as executrix for the estate of Pierce Inverarity, a Hearstliketycoon, inadvertently begins to uncover an international postal conspiracy dating back toEurope in the Middle Ages. Like V., Oedipa's story is rich with symbolism and leitmotif,in an armature often having to do with an idea practically trademarked by Pynchon:entropy, or the tendency of closed energy systems to move toward disorder. Again this isa borrowing from an early story by the author ("Entropy"); and it is reprised, in Gravity'sRainbow.
 
Whereas Pynchon's early novels are accessible, or at least crystalline enough to permitreaders to follow them to their ambiguous conclusions, Gravity's Rainbow confoundsreaderly expectations utterly. The surrealism -- the eruptions of odd, unforeseeable eventsand voices; the doublings, triplings, halvings, and quarterings of characters; the chance procedures -- that occasionally colors prior novels emerges in GR as the dominantstrategy. Pynchon's controlled third-person-limited point of view in Lot 49 becomes thefractal omniscience of GR. Primarily the narrative of Tyrone Slothrop, a GI in Londonduring the Second World War who has the ability to predict imminent German bombingtrajectories by erection, GR deals tangentially with hundreds of other importantcharacters, with Russians, Germans, Africans, and Central Asians, and with settings suchas Colonial America, turn-of-the-century Africa, and the United States of the earlyseventies before it dispatches Slothrop entirely, casting his fragmentary consciousnessaround the remainder of the book. (He fails to appear recognizably in the last fifty pages.)What accounts for the perpetual hold Gravity's Rainbow has on the consciousness of American writers and critics? What accounts for the myth that has sprung up around it --a myth that seems to have ensnared even the facts of the author's life, or, at least, our ideaof those facts? What makes GR so crucial to the voyage of younger American writers? I'dcontend that it's Pynchon's style, not his subject. Whereas the prose in V., Lot 49, and theearly stories is occasionally inventive and arrestingly lyrical ("For it was now likewalking among matrices of a great digital computer, the zeroes and ones twinned above,hanging like balanced mobiles right and left, ahead, thick, maybe endless. Behind thehieroglyphic streets there would either be a transcendent meaning, or only the earth"), inGR it is more than dazzling -- it's uncanny. It discards the usual limits on English andAmerican prose. In fact, the writing -- notwithstanding the physics and hard science in anovel often fascinated with the intricacies of ordnance technologies -- seems to me the point of GR, its motivating force, especially as this language elucidates Pynchon's febrileimagination. Take, for example, the stunning opening page, with its nightmarishevocation of the London Blitz.
They have begun to move. They pass in line, out of the main station, out of downtown,and begin pushing into older and more desolate parts of the city. Is this the way out? Faces turn to the windows, but no one dares ask, not out loud. Rain comes down. No, thisis not a disentanglement from, but a progressive knotting into -- they go in under archways, secret entrances of rotted concrete that only looked like loops of an underpass... and it is poorer the deeper they go ... ruinous secret cities of poor, places whose nameshe has never heard.
American research libraries swell with monographs interpreting Gravity's Rainbow, andmany of these monographs are taken up with the arcana of the novel -- the physics, thestatistics, the theory, the citations (of Max Weber, of Gioacchino Rossini, of Pavlov). Butif GR were merely literature of ideas (in the limited sense that Nabokov so often decried),we would think no more of this work than we do of Philip K. Dick's engaging sciencefictions. Pynchon's accomplishment is that he has found the perfect marriage of form andlanguage for his rendering of Western consciousness.
 
The Reagan-Bush years saw Pynchon's output dwindle. Other than the introduction to hisvolume of apprentice stories, Slow Learner (1984), Pynchon published nothing newduring the eighties. However, his next novel, Vineland, an anti-canonical comic romp, isset during that time of substance abuse and leveraged buyouts. Largely dismissed bytenured Pynchonians when it was first published, Vineland now seems to have beenunderrated. Its narrative -- of the California student movements in the sixties, and of Frenesi Gates, a student filmmaker turned FBI informant and delinquent hippie mom -- is both funny ("The secret to Spinach Casserole was the UBI, or Universal BindingIngredient, cream of mushroom soup") and sympathetic in ways that are rare in thePynchon canon. Its language, rather than its science and philosophy, is uppermost in themind of the reader (though there are of course passages of Pynchonian erudition, as in thematerial on union organizing during the thirties), and this language is controlled --without the occasional awkwardnesses of the early work -- and engaging.WHICH brings us to Mason & Dixon. If you accept the rumor-mongering on the WorldWide Web and elsewhere, the author has been at work on this particular monster for morethan a decade. This is easy to believe. At nearly 800 pages, Mason & Dixon is obviouslymeant to quash the idea that Gravity's Rainbow was some sort of fantastic lucky break. Itis self-consciously intent on dealing with American literature on the most ambitious scaleimaginable. And it succeeds magnificently.The first electrifying difference about M&D is the astonishing voice of its narration.Pynchon has elected to write his new novel in an eighteenth-century English idiom. Tosay this is risky is to understate, and yet the voice here is not only elegiac and credible but also powerfully moving and unexpected, especially given the very contemporarylanguage of the Pynchon novels that have preceded it.Eighteenth-century prose is the style because this is a historical novel about the famoussurveyors Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon -- mappers of the border betweenPennsylvania and Maryland that also made up part of the dividing line between slavestates and free states before the Civil War, and globetrotters on a variety of scientificadventures in the later 1700s. More than simply a period voice telling a tall tale of thesetwo anti-heroes, however, the narration is largely the first-person voice of a singular character, the Reverend Wicks Cherrycoke, who tells most of the story of M&D after dinner, for the entertainment of his family. Thus we have an oral narrative, like Conrad'sHeart of Darkness -- the first such in Pynchon's output, and a form that recalls an earlier time in the development of the novel. (As far as conceptual continuity is concerned, theReverend Cherrycoke seems to be related to a minor character from GR, a psychic calledRonald Cherrycoke -- and this perhaps accounts for the Reverend's ability to relate eventsat which he was not present.)The action of Mason & Dixon is refreshingly linear, compared with the complexity of Pynchon's earlier work. Since it's shaped by the needs of Cherrycoke's folktale (he was amember of two Mason and Dixon expeditions and bases his yarn on inside knowledge), it provides many of the elements of a good story: romance, Indian attack, and so forth. The
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