For every kind of vampire, there is a kind of cross.
THOMAS PYNCHONWhat, I should only trust good people? Man, good people get bought and sold every day. Might as well trust somebody evil once in a while, it makes no more or less sense.
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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Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength.
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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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He decided that we suffer from great temporal homesickness for the decade we were born in.
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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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Someday it’ll all be done by machine. Information machines.
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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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You may never get to touch the Master, but you can tickle his creatures.
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Love with your mouth shut, help without breaking your ass or publicizing it: keep cool, but care.
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Idle dreaming is often of the essence of what we do.
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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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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.
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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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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.
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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.
THOMAS PYNCHON






