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 PYNCHONI 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 PYNCHONWhat, 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.
THOMAS PYNCHONLength is usually intensity. Not time.
THOMAS PYNCHONBehind the hieroglyphic streets there would either be a transcendent meaning, or only the earth.
THOMAS PYNCHONIf there is something comforting – religious, if you want – about paranoia, there is still also anti-paranoia, where nothing is connected to anything, a condition not many of us can bear for long.
THOMAS PYNCHONIf 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 PYNCHONSome 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.
THOMAS PYNCHONIf 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 PYNCHONThey plot, they plot, sleeping or afoot they never let up.
THOMAS PYNCHONTime is never wasted if you remember to bring along something to read.
THOMAS PYNCHONShe 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 PYNCHONBut 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.
THOMAS PYNCHONSomeday it’ll all be done by machine. Information machines.
THOMAS PYNCHONLet me be unambiguous. I prefer not to be photographed.
THOMAS PYNCHONWhy should things be easy to understand?
THOMAS PYNCHONOur history is an aggregate of last moments.
THOMAS PYNCHON