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.
THOMAS PYNCHONGet too conceptual, too cute and remote, and your characters die on the page.
More Thomas Pynchon Quotes
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Someday it’ll all be done by machine. Information machines.
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Let me be unambiguous. I prefer not to be photographed.
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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.
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Ills are many, blessings few, but dreams tonight will shelter you.
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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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Through the machineries of greed, pettiness, and the abuse of power, love occurs.
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Behind the hieroglyphic streets there would either be a transcendent meaning, or only the earth.
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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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What, I should only trust good people? Man, good people get bought and sold every day. Might as well trust somebody evil once in a while, it makes no more or less sense.
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All variables are independent.
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Shall I project a world?
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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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Get too conceptual, too cute and remote, and your characters die on the page.
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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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You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
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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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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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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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What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one’s enemy only when his back is turned?
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Perhaps its familiarity rendered it temporarily invisible to you.
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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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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.
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Why should things be easy to understand?
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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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If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about answers.
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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.
THOMAS PYNCHON