You 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 PynchonShe touched the edge of its voluptuous field, knowing it would be lovely beyond dreams simply to submit to it; that not gravity's pull, laws of ballistics, feral ravening, promised more delight. She tested it, shivering: I am meant to remember. Each clue that comes is supposed to have its own clarity, its fine chances for permanence. But then she wondered if the gemlike "clues" were only some kind of compensation. To make up for her having lost the direct, epileptic Word, the cry that might abolish the night.
Thomas PynchonLife's single lesson: that there is more accident to it than a man can ever admit to in a lifetime and stay sane.
Thomas PynchonWhat are the stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?
Thomas PynchonLaboring through a world every day more stultified, which expected salvation in codes and governments, ever more willing to settle for suburban narratives and diminished payoffs--what were the chances of finding anyone else seeking to transcend that, and not even particularly aware of it?
Thomas Pynchon