Love with your mouth shut, help without breaking your ass or publicizing it: keep cool, but care.
THOMAS PYNCHONBehind the hieroglyphic streets there would either be a transcendent meaning, or only the earth.
More Thomas Pynchon Quotes
-
-
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 -
Perhaps its familiarity rendered it temporarily invisible to you.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Time is never wasted if you remember to bring along something to read.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
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.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
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 -
A woman is only half of something there are usually two sides to.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Let me be unambiguous. I prefer not to be photographed.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one’s enemy only when his back is turned?
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Despair came over her, as it will when nobody around has any sexual relevance to you.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
There was no difference between the behavior of a god and the operations of pure chance.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
Can’t say it often enough — change your hair, change your life.
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.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
It is simply wrong to begin with a theme, symbol or other abstract unifying agent, and then try to force characters and events to conform to it.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
All variables are independent.
THOMAS PYNCHON -
What are the stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?
THOMAS PYNCHON