/lit/ - Literature

>>22142944

>From the time we were little kids, they brainwashed us with all kinds of jive about how lucky America was, is and will continue to be, world without end, amen, and how lucky we were to be living in it. They taught us Dr. Johnson's line ass backward, that there is much to be enjoyed, little to be endured, and we, saps and too young to know any better, believed it.

>So, sure, when we run into things like hate, and ICBMs and cancer, it seems like too much to endure. And if enough evil and misfortune succeeds in piling around us like a heap of shit till it's up to our necks, and then some cat walks up, unzips his fly and prepares to piss on us, and it becomes a choice of whether to take it or duck, or to get out of the game completely, we not infrequently choose out.

>Older people, like the Negroes we've put down for 300 years, have not forgotten that might makes right and talk is cheap. It is interesting that Negroes in America have survived indignity, pain, hunger, sickness and poverty of a sort and depth that would have drive most whites to suicide. I think it's because they never got a chance to start conning themselves, because it's root hog or die from the minute the cord is cut. It is something we can learn from them, maybe, if we're hip enough.

Pynchon

Thoughts on Against the day

What the hell, this guy isn't based and redpilled at all. I thought this was a right wing christian board, why did you get me to read this degenerate trash?

ITT rank Pynchon's books from best to worst.

DUDE WHAT IF LIKE I LEFT THE PLOTS UNRESOLVED LMAO

you know what would be even better writing? actually writing a satisfying ending

>>19483327
>read a random book
>imagine all the characters but as furry
For me, Slothrop was a fox of british breed. If I had to furrify Pychon, he would obviously be a rabbit, just look at those teeth!
Shit ton of McCarthy characters end up being wolves.
I like to make sure that the races of the people match up with geographical animals. This makes reading books about black people especially enjoyable, because hyenas are pretty cute.

The correct Pynchon reading order is:

Gravity's Rainbow -> Inherent Vice -> Bleeding Edge -> Crying of Lot 49 -> V. -> Mason and Dixon -> Slow Learner -> Against the Day -> Vineland -> Crying of Lot 49 again -> V. again -> Gravity's Rainbow again -> Mason and Dixon again

What the fuck is his problem?

What's that? You wanted a satisfying conclusion to Tyrone Slothrop's adventures throughout post-war Europe? Too bad! Now shut the fuck up and listen to this story about an immortal lightbulb

MAJOR MARVY SUCKS NIGGERS

>>18940060
>"Hyuk, hyuk, bet you didn't expect to get -- pynched!"

>In his guest appearance on the Simpsons, Thomas Pynchon refused to utter the line "No wonder Homer is such a fat-ass." Pynchon's objection apparently had nothing to do with the salty language but rather because "Homer is [his] role model and [he] can't speak ill of him."

>>18750352
He will be missed!

Write the plot of his final novel

Write the plot of his last novel

>>18467167
If Slothrop follows that harp down the toilet it’ll have to be headfirst, which is not so good, cause it leaves his ass up in the air helpless, and with Negroes around that’s just what a fella doesn’t want, his face down in some fetid unknown darkness and brown fingers, strong and sure, all at once undoing his belt, unbuttoning his fly, strong hands holding his legs apart—and he feels the cold Lysol air on his thighs as down come the boxer shorts too, now, with the colorful bass lures and trout flies on them. He struggles to work himself farther into the toilet hole as dimly, up through the smelly water, comes the sound of a whole dark gang of awful Negroes come yelling happily into the white men’s room, converging on poor wriggling Slothrop, jiving around the way they do singing, “Slip the talcum to me, Malcolm!” And the voice that replies is who but that Red, the shoeshine boy who’s slicked up Slothrop’s black patents a dozen times down on his knees jes poppin’ dat rag to beat the band . . . now Red the very tall, skinny, extravagantly conked redhead Negro shoeshine boy who’s just been “Red” to all the Harvard fellas—“Say Red, any of those Sheiks in the drawer?” “How ’bout another luck-changin’ phone number there, Red?”—this Negro whose true name now halfway down the toilet comes at last to Slothrop’s hearing—as a thick finger with a gob of very slippery jelly or cream comes sliding down the crack now toward his asshole, chevroning the hairs along like topo lines up a river valley—the true name is Malcolm, and all the black cocks know him, Malcolm, have known him all along—Red Malcolm the Unthinkable Nihilist sez, “Good golly he sure is all asshole ain’t he?” Jeepers Slothrop, what a position for you to be in! Even though he has succeeded in getting far enough down now so that only his legs protrude and his buttocks heave and wallow just under the level of the water like pallid domes of ice. Water splashes, cold as the rain outside, up the walls of the white bowl. “Grab him ’fo’ he gits away!” “Yowzah!” Distant hands clutch after his calves and ankles, snap his garters and tug at the argyle sox Mom knitted for him to go to Harvard in, but these insulate so well, or he has progressed so far down the toilet by now, that he can hardly feel the hands at all. . .

If Slothrop follows that harp down the toilet it’ll have to be headfirst, which is not so good, cause it leaves his ass up in the air helpless, and with Negroes around that’s just what a fella doesn’t want, his face down in some fetid unknown darkness and brown fingers, strong and sure, all at once undoing his belt, unbuttoning his fly, strong hands holding his legs apart—and he feels the cold Lysol air on his thighs as down come the boxer shorts too, now, with the colorful bass lures and trout flies on them. He struggles to work himself farther into the toilet hole as dimly, up through the smelly water, comes the sound of a whole dark gang of awful Negroes come yelling happily into the white men’s room, converging on poor wriggling Slothrop, jiving around the way they do singing, “Slip the talcum to me, Malcolm!” And the voice that replies is who but that Red, the shoeshine boy who’s slicked up Slothrop’s black patents a dozen times down on his knees jes poppin’ dat rag to beat the band . . . now Red the very tall, skinny, extravagantly conked redhead Negro shoeshine boy who’s just been “Red” to all the Harvard fellas—“Say Red, any of those Sheiks in the drawer?” “How ’bout another luck-changin’ phone number there, Red?”—this Negro whose true name now halfway down the toilet comes at last to Slothrop’s hearing—as a thick finger with a gob of very slippery jelly or cream comes sliding down the crack now toward his asshole, chevroning the hairs along like topo lines up a river valley—the true name is Malcolm, and all the black cocks know him, Malcolm, have known him all along—Red Malcolm the Unthinkable Nihilist sez, “Good golly he sure is all asshole ain’t he?” Jeepers Slothrop, what a position for you to be in! Even though he has succeeded in getting far enough down now so that only his legs protrude and his buttocks heave and wallow just under the level of the water like pallid domes of ice. Water splashes, cold as the rain outside, up the walls of the white bowl. “Grab him ’fo’ he gits away!” “Yowzah!” Distant hands clutch after his calves and ankles, snap his garters and tug at the argyle sox Mom knitted for him to go to Harvard in, but these insulate so well, or he has progressed so far down the toilet by now, that he can hardly feel the hands at all. . .

What's the greatest filter in literary history? For me, it's the episode of the cocaine addicted adenoid of st. james

What's he trying to hide?
https://famouskin.com/famous-kin-menu.php?name=41896+thomas+pynchon

>declassifies Operation Paperclip, MKULTRA, and Stargate Project
>eheheh nothing personal kid

Is it possible that he's already dead and we actually don't know about it? Would the family even be able to hide his death for long?