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.
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.
More Thomas Pynchon Quotes
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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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My belief is that “recluse” is a code word generated by journalists; meaning, “doesn’t like to talk to reporters.”
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What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one’s enemy only when his back is turned?
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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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Someday it’ll all be done by machine. Information machines.
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Shall I project a world?
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Real flight and dreams of flight go together. Both are part of the same movement. Not A before B, but all together.
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Ills are many, blessings few, but dreams tonight will shelter you.
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Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength.
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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 they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about answers.
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Let me be unambiguous. I prefer not to be photographed.
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A screaming comes across the sky.
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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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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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A woman is only half of something there are usually two sides to.
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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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Through the machineries of greed, pettiness, and the abuse of power, love occurs.
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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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But 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.
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They plot, they plot, sleeping or afoot they never let up.
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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.
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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 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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It takes, unhappily, no more than a desk and writing supplies to turn any room into a confessional.
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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.
THOMAS PYNCHON