Our history is an aggregate of last moments.
THOMAS PYNCHONTeamwork,” 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.
More Thomas Pynchon Quotes
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Ills are many, blessings few, but dreams tonight will shelter you.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
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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Let me be unambiguous. I prefer not to be photographed.
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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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Someday it’ll all be done by machine. Information machines.
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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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My belief is that “recluse” is a code word generated by journalists; meaning, “doesn’t like to talk to reporters.”
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The general public has long been divided into two parts; those who think that science can do anything and those who are afraid it will.
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Time is never wasted if you remember to bring along something to read.
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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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Get too conceptual, too cute and remote, and your characters die on the page.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Idle dreaming is often of the essence of what we do.
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 -
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.
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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