She may know a little, may think of herself, face and body, as โprettyโโฆbut 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.
Thomas PynchonYou go from dream to dream inside me. You have passage to my last shabby corner, and there, among the debris, youโve found life. Iโm no longer sure which of all the words, images, dreams or ghosts are โyoursโ and which are โmine.โ Itโs past sorting out.
Thomas PynchonIt's been a prevalent notion. Fallen sparks. Fragments of vessels broken at the Creation. And someday, somehow, before the end, a gathering back to home. A messenger from the Kingdom, arriving at the last moment. But I tell you there is no such message, no such home -- only the millions of last moments . . . nothing more. Our history is an aggregate of last moments.
Thomas Pynchon