It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional.
THOMAS PYNCHONThe general public has long been divided into two parts; those who think that science can do anything and those who are afraid it will.
More Thomas Pynchon Quotes
-
-
The reality is in this head. Mine. I’m the projector at the planetarium, all the closed little universe visible in the circle of that stage is coming out of my mouth, eyes, and sometimes other orifices also.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
A woman is only half of something there are usually two sides to.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
The general public has long been divided into two parts; those who think that science can do anything and those who are afraid it will.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Time is never wasted if you remember to bring along something to read.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
It all comes down, as it must, to the desires of individual men. Oh, and women too of course, bless their empty little heads.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Let me be unambiguous. I prefer not to be photographed.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Idle dreaming is often of the essence of what we do.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
There is no real direction here, neither lines of power nor cooperation. Decisions are never really made – at best they manage to emerge, from a chaos of peeves, whims, hallucinations and all around assholery.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Someday it’ll all be done by machine. Information machines.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
I was dreaming about my grandfather. A very old man, at least as old as I am now, 91. I thought, when I was a boy, that he had been 91 all his life. Now I feel as if I have been 91 all my life.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
For every kind of vampire, there is a kind of cross.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
There is nothing so loathsome as a sentimental surrealist.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
You know what a miracle is. Not what Bakunin said. But another world’s intrusion into this one. Most of the time we coexist peacefully, but when we do touch there’s cataclysm.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
She may know a little, may think of herself, face and body, as ‘pretty’ but he could never tell her all the rest, how many other living things, birds, nights smelling of grass and rain, sunlit moments of simple peace, also gather in what she is to him.
THOMAS PYNCHON






