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.
THOMAS PYNCHONCan’t say it often enough — change your hair, change your life.
More Thomas Pynchon Quotes
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A screaming comes across the sky.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
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.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
There is nothing so loathsome as a sentimental surrealist.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Let me be unambiguous. I prefer not to be photographed.
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 -
Get too conceptual, too cute and remote, and your characters die on the page.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
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.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
He decided that we suffer from great temporal homesickness for the decade we were born in.
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She thougt of sunrise over the library slope at Cornell University that nobody out on it had seen because the slope faces west.
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Through the machineries of greed, pettiness, and the abuse of power, love occurs.
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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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There was no difference between the behavior of a god and the operations of pure chance.
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All investigations of Time, however sophisticated or abstract, have at their true base the human fear of mortality.
THOMAS PYNCHON