If patterns of ones and zeros were ‘like’ patterns of human lives and death, if everything about an individual could be represented in a computer record by a long string of ones and zeros, then what kind of creature would be represented by a long string of lives and deaths?
THOMAS PYNCHONShe thougt of sunrise over the library slope at Cornell University that nobody out on it had seen because the slope faces west.
More Thomas Pynchon Quotes
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Life’s single lesson: that there is more accident to it than a man can ever admit to in a lifetime and stay sane.
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Get too conceptual, too cute and remote, and your characters die on the page.
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Everybody gets told to write about what they know. The trouble with many of us is that at the earlier stages of life we think we know everything- or to put it more usefully, we are often unaware of the scope and structure of our ignorance.
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But with a sigh he had released her hand, while she was so lost in the fantasy that she hadn’t felt it go away, as if he’d known the best moment to let go.
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Length is usually intensity. Not time.
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If the world offered nothing, nowhere to support or make bearable whatever her private grief was, then it is that world, and not she, that is at fault.
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If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about answers.
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Can’t say it often enough — change your hair, change your life.
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It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional.
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Like so many named places in California it was less an identifiable city than a grouping of concepts–census tracts, special purpose bond-issue districts, shopping nuclei, all overlaid with access roads to its own freeway.
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What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one’s enemy only when his back is turned?
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Love with your mouth shut, help without breaking your ass or publicizing it: keep cool, but care.
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My belief is that “recluse” is a code word generated by journalists; meaning, “doesn’t like to talk to reporters.”
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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.
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A screaming comes across the sky.
THOMAS PYNCHON