Vineland

This was my first stab at Pynchon's work and I've been fascinated by the man ever since. After nine years, a lot of this novel escapes me. I remember only basics of the plot, but there are sequences and phrases that return to me occasionally like fragments of dreams, and the unforgettable main characters are still fresh in my mind. I'd reccomend this before tackling Gravity's Rainbow or any of his 'big' novels (I find it more accesible than the Crying of Lot 49, though that's also a good starter). Aside from the erudition and intricate plotting, the reason most readers are drawn to Pynchon is the sense of wonder he evokes, the feeling that he could take you absolutely anywhere (and will), and the dizzying sensation that hits when he loses you in the wilderness of his prose and startles you back with a scene of stunning imagination and comic timing. It only takes a few pages for you to realize you will never forget Zoyd Wheeler, Prairie and Hector. The maze that follows is never too daunting with such colorful characters along for the ride. Well worth the work and well worth the time!

The first four full sentences on page 138 of the 1990 hardcover alone are almost too bleeding good. And what about Hector freaking out on the table in Bodhi Dharma Pizza, with his priceless put-down of the night manager? Or Prairie commandeering the kitchen in the retreat of the Sisterhood of Kunoichi Attentives and heading into the freezer for the glowing Variety Loaves? Vato and Blood driving at night to the theme from Psycho? The colossal dopechunk in Zee Dubya's house?! Echoes of absquatulation??!! Well I could go on but let me just say instead that this wonderful book has as much astonishing writing in it as anything else Mister Pynchon--God bless him--has produced. Reading through the opinions here it surprises me that so many people don't get Vineland, but then again maybe it shouldn't. Get a load of this: My comments here are dated April 5th, a Wednesday, but actually I didn't put the last bit in until two days later, Friday the 7th. So there I am right, later that night watching telly in bed with one eye and re-reading the funny bits in the book under review with the other when what comes on at 11.30 but the episode of The Simpsons where Homer is fired by Mr. Burns and gets a job as a salesman in Boris' Car Loft. Meanwhile Marge writes a racy whaling novel called The Harpooned Heart which is a smash with the locals. The character based on Homer goes for a pint in Moab's--I love that. Then things go sideways for a while because who suddenly shows up and phones in a blurb but Old Ruggles himself, and not just animated footage of him either, his actual voice too. I couldn't believe it, I was looking at a cartoon version of Thomas Pynchon and hearing his real New York accent! He was wearing a brown paper bag over his head, presumably to conceal his features and maintain his usual anonymity. Mindblown I was--this being a Friday night remember--and only too happy to concede that this piece of theatre put my own finishing touches in the outhouse, to semi-quote myself and steal yet again from the great Charles Portis, who everybody should read too. But just one more thing and then I'll shut my yap: It seems to me that whenever Zoyd Wheeler stumbles into view in this novel the writing becomes especially focused, lively, funny and, well, tender. I could be wrong here but I'm guessing Mister Pynchon really likes this dude and his affection translates into some of Vineland's most unforgettable prose. Take the chapter where Zoyd flies to Honolulu to check up on Frenesi as a for instance: the descriptive passages here, full of looping, intricate sentences, deliver up the pathos and hard comedy of his plight to perfection. The dialogue zips along too and Zoyd even gets to crack a Steve McGarrett joke. As I said, it's easy to see where Mister Pynchon's sympathies lie and you can't help rooting for the frazzled ol' dope fiend. Hapless, dishevelled, a little windblown and feckless maybe but basically honest, Zoyd is the unsung heart of this great novel.

Don't read VINELAND expecting a linear narrative about people who, oh, manage the office. Instead, be ready to follow cartoon characters, often scarred by the turmoil of the Sixties, whose stories are part nightmare, part larky fantasy, and part political commentary. Then, be ready as their stories lead to other characters whose experiences double back or leap forward, forming a loose web of complex digressions that are fascinating, troubling, and, shall we say, silly, hm? In addition, don't expect consistency. Read VINELAND and see one character die but rejoin the action. See another escape from jail and the evil Brock Vond, only to reappear in that jail again (same time same place, as far as I could tell) to suffer Brock's brutal dominance. But, who cares? VINELAND is a web of interaction, not some boring story of simple cause and effect. In some respects, VINELAND is that old saw-a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. But this time, it's not Churchill describing Russia; it's the lyrical John Updike channeling George Carlin on a great and hilarious riff. At the same time, THREE-CHEERS for the Pynch, who ties everything together in the final chapter in a neat post-modern package. There, you will find his clear and amusing narrative explanations for the bizarre DL and Takeshi, the toxic Brock, and the earnest stoner Zoyd. There's his silly overview of the story-"Oh, the usual journey from point A to point B." Pynch even tells you what happens to Desmond, the feral family dog, who seemed lost forever. VINELAND has a singular, playful, and awesome associative style, with Pynchon in total control. And since it's Pynchon, he tells you. Indeed, this reader found on page 160 in the original hardcover: "A young woman with regular features, wearing a draped white gown, appeared out of the airport crowds, leaned her forearm on Takeshi's shoulder, whispered, `Watch the paranoia, please!' and then disappeared again." Read the book and you'll see this is Pynchon, having fun, with Lady Literature reminding him to set limits. A really terrific novel and well worth the effort.

This book has always been shamefully underrated, and I've never been sure why. As Pynchon's first new published work after Gravity's Rainbow (not counting his intro to Slow Learner and letters to various Northern California local papers written under the pseudonym, Wanda Tinaski) it must have come as a shock. Where was the dazzling virtuosity? Where was GR's fascination with hidden conspiracies, inanimate processes and their ineluctable creep into and over human life? But this book has nearly all the complexity of GR, just hidden in a narrative so perfectly crafted that you barely notice as it slides from time to time, place to place and most signigicantly, person to person. It is also a retelling of a set of Greek or other myths (especially in all the lands of the dead that characters must enter and re-emerge from) or a fable of the dream of American freedom - a dream much older than the hippies. And no less than GR, and perhaps more honestly, Vineland takes a very hard look at what it means to be free or not. It is in many ways an answer to GR, taking up it's concerns and treating them forthrightly. But instead of laying the blame on inanimate processes of technology, here Pynchon looks as what "actual" people do, conciously and unconciously, to create our world, and he is not afraid to lay the blame squarely on people who insist on attempting to control others, and finding hope in those who wish only to live their lives. Which brings up the point of the whole book. Without question, Pynchon's strongest, truest characters live in Vineland and it is for them and them alone that it is written. In his intro to Slow Learner, Pynchon mentions how much more important good characters are than clever ideas, and I have to agree. There are no clever conceits (like GRs rocket) unifying this book, and that may disappoint some, but the characters are as alive as any in fiction. It's true that to like this book, you already have to agree with Pychon's politics, more or less. But they aren't much different from what we're taught to believe America is supposed to be about; personal freedom and responsibility, melting pot, no aristocracy, level playing field, etc. etc. I bet there are some "conservatives", especially out west, who could get with this book. But eastern tighty-whitey types - forget it. Most of all, Vineland is the book where Pynchon's big, sad, wise, loving heart is most to the fore, and this is why it's my favorive of his books. There were many hints of it in GR, and it lives on in the not-quite-as-succesful Mason & Dixon, but Vineland is where it shines. Such stuff may be too obvious to be chic, but to me it's as true and real as anything ever gets.

I'll admit right off the bat that this is one of my favorite novels. It's packed with more sly nods to American pop-culture of the last 8 decades than Dennis Miller could ever hope to cram into a whole week of Monday Night Football. The prose is cumbersome and labyrinthine, but Pynchon rewards those with the patience to stick it out. If you are willing to work your way through this dizzying journey to the heart of left-wing politics in America, there's a lot to be learned.Like I said, Pynchon's style is really frustrating at times; clauses hang in places one wouldn't normally find them, long phrases get stuffed in parenthetical asides, and sentences--beautiful though they are--sprawl all over like lines of Whitman or Kerouac. What we lose in ease, though, we make up for in depth. The prose of "Vineland" almost forces you to slow down and savor it, and, given the wealth of historical and cultural moments to which Pynchon either pays subtle homage or deals a slight blow, you NEED to slow down.This matter of style is directly related to the critique that Pynchon develops, through the course of the novel, of the Woodstock generation. "Vineland" charts the counter-culture's successes and failures in a very fair way, and measures the 1960s against the larger tradition of radical politics in America dating back to the first-half of the twentieth century.Rather than narrowmindedly berate the hippies for their rejection of traditional moralities (as a whole ugly slew of right-wing critics has done, from Michel Houellebecq to William Bennett and Rush Limbaugh), Pynchon's problems with sixties radicalism revolve around the gut-instinct, spur-of-the-moment flightiness of the era. What was needed, the novel seems to suggest, was more thought and study, less immediate action, and a better understanding of the long term--all of which was total anathema to a generation hell-bent on living for the moment and equally convinced of the revolutionary potential in doing so.Against this, the advice given to Prairie Wheeler (whose search for her lost mother sends us on this trans-generational and -historical thrill ride) to study the things she doesn't quite get, is good advice for anyone who wants to slog through this book. Pynchon knows a hell of a lot of important stuff and he's not afraid to show it; however, obscure references should not be a reason to discard "Vineland," but rather a reason to open an encyclopedia, to find out more about a sort of hidden history of the left half of the USA.I've made the whole thing sound very dry and political, but there are other forces at play in "Vineland" that simply can't be categorized or explained: mysterious, Godzilla-like footprints that flatten buildings, for example, or ninja death-touches gone astray. And this is to say nothing of the sheer humor of this book, which is off the charts from the outset, when an aging ex-hippie jumps through a plate-glass window to ensure that his government disability checks don'