Gravity’s Rainbow for the Fall

Now that I am wrap­ping up My Infi­nite Sum­mer, mulling over Pemulis’ footnote-expulsion and wad­ing through Gately’s ‘post-default-setting-violent-encounter’ recov­ery, I turn my mind to the next book. And just to re-iterate that the uni­verse takes care of its own, another group is start­ing, though this time with Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rain­bow. I took this book out of the library once, inspired to do so by a set of incred­i­ble pen-and-ink draw­ings (one draw­ing for every page!) by Zak Smith, but didn’t make it far– can’t remem­ber why, it cer­tainly wasn’t unpleas­ant. Any­way, what­ever, nev­er­mind, the point is: Lushkin and I went to Barnes & Noble (…& Nobles to all the Rus­sians I know) and grabbed our­selves and good, fresh, new, industrial-press-smelling post-WWII lit­er­ary mas­ter­piece. Lucian quite enjoyed fan­ning the pages and mak­ing his pseudo-speak erup­tive provo­ca­tions at the peo­ple behind us in line. I quite enjoyed the chal­lenge ahead, and acknowl­edged the sur­pris­ing power of the group fac­tor as a moti­va­tion, mea­sure­ment, sense of belong­ing, what­not. Geo­dis­cur­sive tribes, I gather. Such as it is.

So life and I, we have an accord. Gravity’s Fall.

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