V. – A Novel

Where do I begin to describe the wandering wonder of Thomas Pynchon’s fiction?  Having done a little cursory research, I am hardly the first, or most literary, to find myself attempting to describe a book that seems to exist to defy description.  The most telling comment that I can make with regard to the novel is that a description of the plot won’t help you understand or appreciate it.  I hesitate to even try; so I won’t.  Suffice to say that the sprawling narrative and colorful characters provide a lush and intoxicating backdrop for an odyssey of the mind that will leave you reeling.  Time and place aren’t nearly as important to the story as image and symbol and a satirical/ironic juxtaposition of opposites that would be exhausting to list.  Consequently, the prose is dense; make no mistake.  At times I found myself not reading as much as hearing the book.  As passages would ramble fom place to place, allusion to allusion, symbol to symbol, big word to bigger word I would let the music of language flow through my mind’s ear and I was entranced.

I’m still trying to decide whether I want to wade into the meaning and implication of the book.  Having just finished it this afternoon, I feel my thoughts would be best served percolating a little longer before being written.  But I urge anyone out there to pick up one Pynchon’s novels and give it a whirl.  It’s a worthwhile challenge that you won’t soon forget.

~ by hamrex on 28 January, 2009.