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 PYNCHONLet the peace of this day be here tomorrow when I wake up.
More Thomas Pynchon Quotes
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It is simply wrong to begin with a theme, symbol or other abstract unifying agent, and then try to force characters and events to conform to it.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Ills are many, blessings few, but dreams tonight will shelter you.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about answers.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Through the machineries of greed, pettiness, and the abuse of power, love occurs.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
They plot, they plot, sleeping or afoot they never let up.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
What are the stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?
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 -
It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Information. What’s wrong with dope and women? Is it any wonder the world’s gone insane, with information come to be the only real medium of exchange?
THOMAS PYNCHON -
A woman is only half of something there are usually two sides to.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Length is usually intensity. Not time.
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 -
What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one’s enemy only when his back is turned?
THOMAS PYNCHON -
You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
He decided that we suffer from great temporal homesickness for the decade we were born in.
THOMAS PYNCHON