The Crying of Lot 49 (1965) by Thomas Pynchon

Maybe I've begun reading Pynchon at the wrong place. I picked up his short stories as a neat, bite-sized introduction to his work, and found them rather wanting. Pynchon himself seems to consider them of poor quality. Continuing along the same logical route, I chose to pick up his shortest novel to continue getting to know him.

Pynchon's zaniness and irreverence is perhaps the main draw, but such a sense of humor is lost on a stodgy clod like myself, so I've got look for other stuff to enjoy here.

Above everything else, this book is messy. Pynchon just can't seem to help himself from diverting into every boondogglesome alley, as if every single tidbit of a story that forms in his mind must be forced into this book, no matter how poorly it suits the current narrative. A primary offender is the ridiculous play which eats up 10 pages of real estate near the end of the first third of this book, in which we're treated to a pointless and comically violent depiction of Renaissance Italian politics. These diversions might work better in a longer novel, or one with a strong narrative root driving it forward, but they feel far too scattered in a novel of such short length.

The novel is filled with oddball diversions such as this and left me skimming them all before too long. Far be it from me to criticize one of Pynchon's literary stature, but the value of such diversions was completely lost on me. I didn't find them comical or topical, but bloated and useless. Rather than expanding on or enhancing its themes or the story it's trying to tell, it feels unfocused and messy. Pynchon is 50 years too early; he's the millennial with a twitter account who thinks his every passing thought is worth sharing, except he's got a typewriter instead, and a horde of postmodern readers who seem to gobble up such nonsense.

Reading Pynchon often feels like listening to someone with ADHD who just did way too much cocaine, but his talent as a nuts-and-bolts writer is undeniable. When the going's good, I'm quite enjoying myself. His description of Mucho early in the novel felt lifelike and poignant, for example. But he seems to miss much more often than he hits, which makes for a jagged, tiresome experience.

This book is like a literal pile of garbage; there are tons of pieces of random, useless detritus (shown here in the form of disparate paragraphs) thrown together into the refuse bin that is this novel, jumbled up, and then congealed together by the permeating, noisome slime that is its main plot line.

Or perhaps I'm just too stupid to get it?

I think it's time to pick up something lengthier and more substantial next. It's probably not time to tackle Gravity's Rainbow yet, but something like V. or Inherent Vice might be more suitable.

I'm still holding out hope that I one day will be capable of reading and enjoying Pynchon, but that hope seems to dwindle a bit more with each story of his that I pick up.

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