Book Review: Pynchon – Against the Day

So I finished it. And it was pretty darned amazing. I’m not going to say it was an easy six months of my life. No. It certainly wasn’t. There were, of course, the obvious physical challenges of spending all those hours (those miles) with six pounds of hardcover bound small print, hard edges threatening my eye sockets, but that was the least of my problems. My wife did suggest that it was “un-sexy” to wear those sport goggles in bed, and she also threatened to ban it from our marital boudoir after I used it to stop that bathroom flood; wine lovers refer to that smell as “ash” or “barnyard” at worst, and even so they find it sexy.

No, I’m happy to report the real challenges lay in the text. With over a hundred characters to keep track of, working in multiple timelines, sometimes alternated dimensions or even media, there was frankly more than I could often handle. Encyclopedic is probably the best way to describe it, and many reviewers do. Except, it would be more like if someone decided to make a novel out of a “B-side” encyclopedia, compiling stories from all the slightly-less-significant-and-sometimes-even-a-little-obscure people and places of the early 20th century: Salzburg, not Paris; Venice, not Rome; Montenegro and Kazakhstan, not Moscow; Denver.

There were spells when I walked away from it. There was one occasion where I left three rather long voice mails on Liesl Schillinger’s phone. But each time, just when I thought I was on the verge of leaving my dollar-bill bookmark in that bad-boy for the last time, I would wind up with a pair of espressos in my hand and a quiet morning ahead of me. And when approached in this way, the book would roll over and show me its marvelous insides. Complex, funny, strangely touching, it could confuse as well as enlighten.

One of the Pynchon fan-sites that I appealed to for help midway through the first third (this would be, what, February?) offered up some advice that really resonated with me. Paraphrasing: reading Pynchon is like listening to jazz, you can listen and try to understand to as much or as little of it as you like and still enjoy it. If it gets to hectic, or you are not sure what is happening, just lie back and let it wash over you. It’s not supposed to make sense, it’s just meant to make you feel good. Feel good, and think.

Apologia

Today I said some things. We said some things. These things we said can never be unsaid. And they will ever linger out there in the aether of memory, would that I could, but alas I cannot: all I can do is to apologize.

Horrible, horrendous things. Surely, some of those words you probably had never heard aloud before. No doubt you wondered if some of them were even fit to be considered English. But they were. English of the bawdiest sort. Terrible English fit only for terrible deeds performed by terrible women. And surprised men!

But to be fair, there was no way I could know you were listening. Or, for that matter, that you weren't going to be out of town. So, though no doubt the words were mine, the ears were yours. And, my love, your ears were supposed to be in Sept-Isles this past weekend, were they not?

But for shame. How terrible of me to lash out at you again. I cannot blame you. It is only my love for you that makes me lash out at you so. What cowardice!

Though it bears mentioning that it wasn't technically the same bed we had slept in the night before you lied about leaving. I would never do that to you! I changed the sheets. Plus, she was wearing your perfume, so that business about "the stink of her" was a little over the top.

But I'm getting off track again. I really want to apologize for my brutish behaviour. Sure, things got a little out of hand, but I had no right to threaten your cat. That was out of line. Especially considering your cat is, in fact, a male, so many of the proposals I made in anger would be biologically unsound if not simply impossible. Similarly, your sister. Except, of course, she is female, so, well, I guess not so impossible. But still: I mean, especially if she was willing to undergo some intensive grooming and so on. Boy oh boy. She is something else.

Not that I'm looking! No! I have been so upset since our row that I have been shut up in my room, unwilling to speak to anyone. Idling away my afternoons, wimpering through my Twin Peaks DVD set. Barely able to eat or drink. Maybe a little schnapps to help me get to sleep at night. And who's kidding who, I have never been able to say no to cured deli meats. Oof, remember those sandwiches Dagwood used to make for himself in the middle of the night? Sausage links and ham-still-on-the-bone all packed in there? There was a guy who knew how to handle life's up and downs.

Has anyone ever told you your sister looks a little like Lara Flynn Boyle?

Look. We'll never be able to go back and change what happened last Friday. Not without some major, major pharmaceutical advances combined with a massive uptick in my purchasing power.

Speaking of which, while we're baring the wounds of our hearts, I should tell you that you are out of gas. I had to pick up my cousin at the airport yesterday and, well, I still have a set of keys to your car. I probably should have filled up on the way back, but, well, you were pretty low to begin with, and so it seemed pretty ridiculous to think that I should have to fill up just for a quick trip to the airport. I was careful to drive slowly so we didn't actually use that much. Riff says hello, by the way.

Oh and I borrowed a few dollars too. I'll get them back to you at the end of the month. Or maybe I'll just pay you back when we go to Stowe in June; get a nice bottle of wine or something. We could pop it in the hot-tub, pump up the Vangelis a little.... Maybe I'd better make it two bottles. You shouldn't leave that kind of cash in the car you know.

Cupcake. My little chocolate chip cupcake. Look at me going on like a fool! I'm sure you can see how distraught I am over our little misunderstanding. I am so sorry. It will never happen again. Not as God nor Eros himself still fills your lungs with the sweet breath of angels.

When does your sister graduate anyways?

Items I have attracted via careful application of The Secret

The admiration of all men

The adoration of all women

Syphallis

An unearned air of erudition

That windswept look

A great deal on gently used all-season radials.

A Jack Russel Terrier named "Champ"

A boxed set of Clint Eastwood's "Dirty Harry" DVDs

The scent of freshly baked bread

A family of swallows in my garage

A bowling 'C' Flight championship

Surprising amounts of lint

Six knee-scuffed and somewhat androgenous kids trailing me on bikes.

A new credit card

A possible lawsuit

A wishing well

$45.90 in small change

At the bar in bare feet.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure Johnny Depp wouldn’t be all that into hanging out with me.”

“Why not? He seems like a pretty cool guy.”

“Oh, very cool. That’s not the issue. I mean, no doubt I’d like to hang out with him, but I just don’t get the sense that he’d be very interested in me. Which, in turn, would make it a lot less fun to hang out with him.”

“I think you’re selling yourself short.”

It was a nice thing to say, but in truth, he really didn’t think he was. The sun leaned down and pressed its forehead into the fringe of palm trees across the bay. His shirt stuck to his back a little in the heat, and they watched the waves, always optimistic that the swell might be picking up.

“I have pleats in my jeans.”

This was also true. He didn’t like the pleats; he knew that they weren’t cool. But he didn’t do his own laundry and really hadn’t worked up the nerve to give his cleaning lady more strict instruction with regard to how his factory distressed jeans lost much of their appeal when pressed with an iron. Plus he didn’t speak Spanish.

He took a sip of his margarita. Little white wisps of smoke rose out of his glass as the humid air met the drink’s little whipped frozen peaks.

“If he got a chance to know you, he’d like you. I like hanging out with you.”

The bartender touched his new mustache lightly; he hadn’t shaved during his week off and was trying it out. The reviews had been positive so far. Being Mexican, the mustache was entirely without insouciant irony.

“Thanks, but who’s kidding who? I wouldn’t even get into the Viper Room.”

Floating

“Shuffle your feet here, there are often sting rays and you don’t want to step on them,” said Sam, and it seemed like sound enough advice to me. I didn’t want to step on a sting ray, it was true. Sting ray barb to the heart, died instantly: who could forget that diagnosis? Not me. Nope. The poor Crocodile Hunter. And I think it’s fair to say that it’s possible that I have a weaker heart than Steve Irwin.

One of the nice things about surfing is you are tied to your floatation device.

Let me tell you: my physical victories in the water were few. I spent a lot of time floating or paddling out of the way of large waves and other surfers (Sam’s other advice with regards to my personal safety had been the highly direct, “stay out of the way of the Mexicans.”). Ultimately, other than frequent beatings and a few brief but wonderful moments when the ocean I moved together in just the right way, most of my time on the board was spent swimming or watching.

And herein was the most surprising part about surfing: there is a very quiet, universally understood social order to it. It’s beautiful and fascinating to watch. Some rules are simple, like “the man closer to the rocks/shore is considered ‘inside’ and he has right of way.” But the other aspects of the lineup are much more intricate, and like so much in the ocean, simply elude accurate description. But it is crucial to grasp them, and quickly, because ultimately, the area in which the actual riding gets done, is not very big.

For the most part, people are very nice to each other in the lineup, largely, I think, due to this unwritten order. The very worst thing that anyone said while I was there was nothing at all. Sometimes, as I understand it, there are altercations. Infractions against locals are particularly egregious and often result in light violence or threats thereof. But as my friend Chris told me, “The Ocean is like a dick-drain. Everyone has a little dick in them; you get it just from walking around, taking care of your shit, y’know? But when you get in the ocean, and you take some waves, all that dickness drains right out of you. And if you’ve still got some dick in you when you’re surfin’? Well man, then you must be some kind of dick.”

I certainly felt drained.

By the end of my stay there, surf was pretty much all I could think about, and I couldn’t even do it right. I usually wound up upside down for God’s sake, ass-kicked and sneezing out salt water for hours afterward. But it doesn’t matter. It’s very much a physical sport, but the deep appeal is social, and ultimately spiritual. No opponents, no finish line: just you, the ocean, some other nice people floating around you, and a few sting rays. I can’t wait to do it again.

Items My Son Put in His Mouth While on Vacation and His Reviews Thereof

Sand, dry: "Mpph!"

Sand, wet: "Eh?"

A Guitar Neck: "Eh?"

Mango & Custard Pastry, warm: "Ma! Ma!"

Stray Grains of Rice, yesterday's: "Kakk."

Fagment of a coconut husk: "Ba?"

His own shoe: "..."

A lime: "Thew"

Sunglasses: "Eh?"

Squirting Green Spcckled Frog, toy: "Ah!"

Hibiscus Blossom, pink: "Ba."

45 SPF Ombrelle Sunscreen, one squirt: "Huuunh."

Chupon (Suess), his: "..."

Chupon (Suess), Isabelle's: "..."

Cheek, Isabelle's: "Eh?"

Hair Brush, his: "Mehh..."

Polished Stones, five: "Eh?"

Pat of Butter, wrapped: "Nah!"

5 Pesos: "Ba!"

Molar, new: "This sucks."

Private Dancer: A Dancer for Money

And Jon stripped for them. Not so much in private, as he was standing on one of the beer hall picnic tables as the crowd swayed and sang, but very much with "private eyes".

The good news is he was clean and smooth all over, like a newborn mouse.

Elena, who is not in fact Brazilian, had given him one of her very special "wax three ways" jobs just a few days before: long enough ago that any unsightly swelling might have subsided.

She starts with a traditional bees wax "slap 'n' pull" and follows with quick application of watermelon flavoured Fruit Rollups - a tasty paraffin based fruity treat both soothing to the skin, highly nutritious, and bizarrely erotic.

Then, she drapes a broad silk cloth across the area(s) and neatly places three dozen votive tea candles in a pattern that tends to look like the Greek character of Pi. The subtle scents of chamomile, lavender, and lawn clippings fill the room and Elena, with a final dramatic flourish, pulls the silk covering out from under the candles - the classic tablecloth trick. The candles burn to completion while he snoozes and all the while his distressed pores are flushed of any last root-matter.

Needless to say, the German waiters appreciated a powdery soft grundle as much as anyone, so Jon was a huge hit. Plus he smells like crushed peaches.