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 PYNCHONThere is no real direction here, neither lines of power nor cooperation. Decisions are never really made – at best they manage to emerge, from a chaos of peeves, whims, hallucinations and all around assholery.
More Thomas Pynchon Quotes
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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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Perhaps its familiarity rendered it temporarily invisible to 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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It all comes down, as it must, to the desires of individual men. Oh, and women too of course, bless their empty little heads.
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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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If 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.
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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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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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Our history is an aggregate of last moments.
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For every kind of vampire, there is a kind of cross.
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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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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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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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Why should things be easy to understand?
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Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength.
THOMAS PYNCHON