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.
THOMAS PYNCHONYou may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
More Thomas Pynchon Quotes
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All variables are independent.
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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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For every kind of vampire, there is a kind of cross.
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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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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.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
If they can get you asking the wrong questions, they don’t have to worry about answers.
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They plot, they plot, sleeping or afoot they never let up.
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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.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength.
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Perhaps its familiarity rendered it temporarily invisible to you.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
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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Ills are many, blessings few, but dreams tonight will shelter you.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
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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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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He decided that we suffer from great temporal homesickness for the decade we were born in.
THOMAS PYNCHON