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 PYNCHONWhat 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.
More Thomas Pynchon Quotes
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You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
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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.
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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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Behind the hieroglyphic streets there would either be a transcendent meaning, or only the earth.
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All variables are independent.
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Someday it’ll all be done by machine. Information machines.
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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 they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about answers.
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To have humanism we must first be convinced of our humanity. As we move further into decadence this becomes more difficult.
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A woman is only half of something there are usually two sides to.
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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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It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional.
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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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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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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