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.