Some of us are afraid of dying; others of human loneliness. Profane was afraid of land or seascapes like this, where nothing else lived but himself.
THOMAS PYNCHONThere is nothing so loathsome as a sentimental surrealist.
More Thomas Pynchon Quotes
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Let me be unambiguous. I prefer not to be photographed.
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They plot, they plot, sleeping or afoot they never let up.
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It all comes down, as it must, to the desires of individual men. Oh, and women too of course, bless their empty little heads.
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Idle dreaming is often of the essence of what we do.
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Someday it’ll all be done by machine. Information machines.
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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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You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
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Someday she might replace whatever of her had gone away by some prosthetic device, a dress of a certain color, a phrase in a letter, another lover.
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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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Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength.
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Real flight and dreams of flight go together. Both are part of the same movement. Not A before B, but all together.
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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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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.
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There is nothing so loathsome as a sentimental surrealist.
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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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Behind the hieroglyphic streets there would either be a transcendent meaning, or only the earth.
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Length is usually intensity. Not time.
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A screaming comes across the sky.
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If there is something comforting – religious, if you want – about paranoia, there is still also anti-paranoia, where nothing is connected to anything, a condition not many of us can bear for long.
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All investigations of Time, however sophisticated or abstract, have at their true base the human fear of mortality.
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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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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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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.
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Teamwork,” Koteks snarled, “is one word for it, yeah. What it really is is a way to avoid responsibility. It’s a symptom of the gutlessness of the whole society.
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You go from dream to dream inside me. You have passage to my last shabby corner, and there, among the debris, you’ve found life. I’m no longer sure which of all the words, images, dreams or ghosts are ‘yours’ and which are ‘mine.’ It’s past sorting out.
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What goes around may come around, but it never ends up exactly the same place, you ever notice? Like a record on a turntable, all it takes is one groove’s difference and the universe can be on into a whole ‘nother song.
THOMAS PYNCHON