A million bureaucrats are diligently plotting death and some of them even know it.
A couple months back, at the end of November*, I joined my first book group. I’d always wanted to be in a book group. I’ve been a book nerd my whole life, but haven’t always had people around to really discuss them with. I saw online a book group aimed at “Better Readings of the Best Books”. Yes! I was excited to really dig into some serious literature. I always enjoy hearing others' viewpoints on literature and art, particularly when they make me see things I wouldn’t otherwise have thought of.
Our first book was to be Gravity’s Rainbow, Pynchon’s 760 page (single spaced, tiny type) WWII epic novel, famed for being nominated for, nearly winning, then being rejected for the Pulitzer Prize, causing no book to win the award in that year. I’d read Pynchon’s much smaller novel The Crying of Lot 49 many years back. I couldn’t tell you now what it was about, but what I do remember was that all the threads that didn’t seem to connect throughout the book all came together perfectly at the end in such a way that I sat back and marvelled at the writer’s skill.
Gravity’s Rainbow was not like that.
I feel like there should be a support group for people who hated Gravity's Rainbow. There seems to be this consensus by those who love that book that if you read it and didn't like it, that you just didn't "get it".
I'm not a literature scholar, I just like a good book. So I wasn't really that familiar with postmodern literature, which tries to show that the "search for reality is pointless". If that was the book's goal, it met it admirably.
I knew from the start of GR that it was not a book to try to make too much sense out of. I didn't realize that it would be nearly entirely nonsensical. It was like reading a writer's drug-induced dream. I more or less enjoyed the first 100 pages, as it read like a challenging, but possibly interesting story. But after that, Pynchon veered off toward the nonsensical, and the passages grew harder to process. Very rarely was I drawn into the story, except for a few short interludes, such as one that involved mistaken identity and a pig suit. But those were few and far between. I found myself reading pages out loud to try to focus enough to get through them. I like challenging writing, but this went past challenging to ridiculous, like a literary practical joke on the reader.
I feel like there should be a support group for people who hated Gravity's Rainbow. There seems to be this consensus by those who love that book that if you read it and didn't like it, that you just didn't "get it".
I'm not a literature scholar, I just like a good book. So I wasn't really that familiar with postmodern literature, which tries to show that the "search for reality is pointless". If that was the book's goal, it met it admirably.
I knew from the start of GR that it was not a book to try to make too much sense out of. I didn't realize that it would be nearly entirely nonsensical. It was like reading a writer's drug-induced dream. I more or less enjoyed the first 100 pages, as it read like a challenging, but possibly interesting story. But after that, Pynchon veered off toward the nonsensical, and the passages grew harder to process. Very rarely was I drawn into the story, except for a few short interludes, such as one that involved mistaken identity and a pig suit. But those were few and far between. I found myself reading pages out loud to try to focus enough to get through them. I like challenging writing, but this went past challenging to ridiculous, like a literary practical joke on the reader.
As I read, and found myself growing angry at the author, I wondered, is it necessary for a writer to take into account the reader’s experience?
On one hand, a writer should be driven by what s/he feels called and compelled to write, getting that story in your head out onto the paper as fully formed as you can. On the other hand, once you put your work out there as a piece to be read, do you owe something to the people taking the time to experience it? Do you need to care if it sends a message, creates an experience, offers something to the reader? (Several times while reading I felt very sorry for Pynchon's editor. That could not have been an enviable task.)
I’m not saying literature has to be pleasant, or fun. I definitely don’t want every author to be a mass market fiction writer, putting out linear plot-driven story lines that wrap up neatly with a bow at the end. I want literature to make me think, to make me uncomfortable, to put me inside the heads of characters I wouldn’t normally choose to inhabit.
If you have read this book, and enjoyed it, I applaud you. I wanted to enjoy it, or learn from it, or have an experience other than boredom and frustration, but I just couldn’t make it happen. The book ultimately ended my brand new book group, because only the leader and I ended up finishing the whole thing. Others decided they didn't have time, or that the book was too foul to continue reading.
If you have not yet, but want to read this book, here are some things to be aware of before you take it on:
1. There is no plot. It pretends to have one in the beginning to draw you in, then it falls away in a drug-induced haze.
2. Don’t bother trying to remember anyone’s names. Some have more than one name, many characters you will read about for 30 tiny type pages and then never hear from again. You can find maps online of how the characters are related, to try and make some sense out of it, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to.
3. It’s effing disgusting. I had read, before I really got into reading the book, about this book losing out on a Pulitzer Prize due to a scene involving a man performing a really foul act on a lady that would normally be the role of a toilet. I won’t describe it here. That scene is pretty early on in the book. It was gross, but was only a few pages long, and I figured ew, but let’s move on. But no, the book is full of detailed descriptions of bodily wastes, pedophilia, S&M, and a metric ton of the author being obsessed with his junk, and the junk of other dudes. And it doesn't seem to really contribute anything to the characters, other than to make you not care about any of them.
4. There is no real ending. There is no conclusion for anyone but one minor character who you’ve completely forgotten about by the time he’s reintroduced. The rest just disappear, or their plotlines dissolve. This may be the goal of post-modernism, to show that there is no real point to anything, but if that was the goal, 300 pages would have been plenty to get that point across.
I was hesitant to admit how much I truly disliked this book, because I know that puts me in the category of people who just aren't intelligent enough to "get it". But maybe, just maybe, the Emperor truly has no clothes at all?
I was hesitant to admit how much I truly disliked this book, because I know that puts me in the category of people who just aren't intelligent enough to "get it". But maybe, just maybe, the Emperor truly has no clothes at all?
*Note: I started reading this book at the very end of November 2013, which should make it ineligible for my #Read26Indy list. But since I read over half of it this year and spent numerous hours wasting my time wading through it, I’ve decided to count it.
