Behind the hieroglyphic streets there would either be a transcendent meaning, or only the earth.
THOMAS PYNCHONIt 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.
More Thomas Pynchon Quotes
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What are the stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?
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Someday it’ll all be done by machine. Information machines.
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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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Our history is an aggregate of last moments.
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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?
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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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There is nothing so loathsome as a sentimental surrealist.
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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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A screaming comes across the sky.
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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.
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Despair came over her, as it will when nobody around has any sexual relevance to you.
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Shall I project a world?
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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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Love with your mouth shut, help without breaking your ass or publicizing it: keep cool, but care.
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Through the machineries of greed, pettiness, and the abuse of power, love occurs.
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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?
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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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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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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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He decided that we suffer from great temporal homesickness for the decade we were born in.
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You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
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All the animals, the plants, the minerals, even other kinds of men, are being broken and reassembled every day, to preserve an elite few, who are the loudest to theorize on freedom, but the least free of all.
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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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Idle dreaming is often of the essence of what we do.
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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.
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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.
THOMAS PYNCHON