Thomas Pynchon Quotes
What, 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.
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?
Some typewriters in Whitehall, in the Pentagon, killed more civilians than our little A4 could have ever hoped to.
What are the stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?
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.
Someday she might replace whatever of her had gone away by some prosthetic device, a dress of a certain color, a phrase in a letter, another lover.
You know what a miracle is. Not what Bakunin said. But another world’s intrusion into this one. Most of the time we coexist peacefully, but when we do touch there’s cataclysm.
What sort of an age is this where a man becomes one's enemy only when his back is turned?
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.
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.
It turns out to be the new Planet, which, a decade and a half later, will be known first as the Georgian, and then as Herschel, after its official Discoverer, and more lately as Uranus.
But as we all know, rock ‘n’ roll will never die, and education too, as Henry Adams always sez, keeps going on forever.
Beneath the rubato of the day abided a stern pulse beating on, ineluctable, unforgiving, whereby whatever was evaded or put off now had to be made up for later, and at a higher level of intensity.
The moment of assassination is the moment when power and the ignorance of power come together, with Death as validator.
There are places we fear, places we dream, places whose exiles we became and never learned it until, sometimes, too late.
The silences here are retreats of sound, like the retreat of the surf before a tidal wave: sound draining away, down slopes of acoustic passage, to gather, someplace else, to a great surge of noise.
You’re chicken, she told herself, snapping her seat belt. This is America, you live in it, you let it happen. Let it unfurl.
The grandeur of space, dig it. Zillions of stars, each one gets its own pixel.”“Awesome.”“Maybe, but it’s code’s all it is.
I don't do lunch. Corrupt artifact of late capitalism. Breakfast maybe?
The innocent are guilty, the guilty are beyond hope, everything’s on its head, it’s a Twelfth Night of late-capitalist contradiction…
In their brief time together Slothrop forms the impression that this octopus is not in good mental health, though where's his basis for comparing?
There is no literature and art without paranoia. Probably there would be even civilization. Paranoia is the world. It is the attempt to make sense of what has not.
A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.
The act of metaphor then was a thrust at truth and lie, depending where you were: inside, safe, or outside, lost.
Only the framing material, " Lucas demurely, "obvious influences, Neo-Tokyo from Akira, Ghost in the Shell, Metal Gear Solid by Hideo Kojima, or as he's known in my crib, God.
Meantime the Newspaper of Record goes around in a little pleated skirt shaking pompoms, leaping in the air with an idiot grin if so much as a cement mixer passes by.
