Real flight and dreams of flight go together. Both are part of the same movement. Not A before B, but all together.
THOMAS PYNCHONAll 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.
More Thomas Pynchon Quotes
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All investigations of Time, however sophisticated or abstract, have at their true base the human fear of mortality.
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Our history is an aggregate of last moments.
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There was no difference between the behavior of a god and the operations of pure chance.
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Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength.
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You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
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A woman is only half of something there are usually two sides to.
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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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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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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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My belief is that “recluse” is a code word generated by journalists; meaning, “doesn’t like to talk to reporters.”
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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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What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one’s enemy only when his back is turned?
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Everybody gets told to write about what they know. The trouble with many of us is that at the earlier stages of life we think we know everything- or to put it more usefully, we are often unaware of the scope and structure of our ignorance.
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There is nothing so loathsome as a sentimental surrealist.
THOMAS PYNCHON