Thomas Pynchon’s attentiveness to history and the details of the contemporary American scene (a hyperawareness that sees revelation in progress all around him and a parable to be entered into around every corner) places him within my continuum of Beloved Community. As a kind of visionary, grounded yet awake to mystery in all things, his unique brand of watchfulness reflects a love for the American landscape and the renewable resource of countercultural possibilities still at work, though often untapped, within our national character. He looks hard and humorously at everything we’re becoming with an eye for every virus of unfreedom that might corrupt our endlessly impressionable imaginations. He seems particularly interested in all the ways in which a population will kid itself concerning its own history (recent and ancient) and all the madness that inevitably follows. If the price of liberty is eternal vigilance against unstoried tyranny and death-dealing impulses played out as necessities, Pynchon’s creative labor involves enough overtime to leave readers feeling dizzy. But the charges of pessimism and paranoia often leveled at those who deem the practice of paying attention a civic duty are unfair, and in Pynchon’s case, betray a misunderstanding, perhaps willful, of what he’s up to.
Remembrance Belongs To The People
Remembrance Belongs To The People
Remembrance Belongs To The People
Thomas Pynchon’s attentiveness to history and the details of the contemporary American scene (a hyperawareness that sees revelation in progress all around him and a parable to be entered into around every corner) places him within my continuum of Beloved Community. As a kind of visionary, grounded yet awake to mystery in all things, his unique brand of watchfulness reflects a love for the American landscape and the renewable resource of countercultural possibilities still at work, though often untapped, within our national character. He looks hard and humorously at everything we’re becoming with an eye for every virus of unfreedom that might corrupt our endlessly impressionable imaginations. He seems particularly interested in all the ways in which a population will kid itself concerning its own history (recent and ancient) and all the madness that inevitably follows. If the price of liberty is eternal vigilance against unstoried tyranny and death-dealing impulses played out as necessities, Pynchon’s creative labor involves enough overtime to leave readers feeling dizzy. But the charges of pessimism and paranoia often leveled at those who deem the practice of paying attention a civic duty are unfair, and in Pynchon’s case, betray a misunderstanding, perhaps willful, of what he’s up to.