Thomas Pynchon uses
the novel as his playground
pp. 477
Published: Jonathan Cape, 2013
Well, well. And where do we start? Depending on the kind of
reader you are, the sheer elusive quality of Pynchon’s latest novel will either
attract or repulse you. You will either adore the author or you will hate him,
for his inimitable style has so much personality, so much (dare I say it?)
sass, that at times it can be nothing more than an imposition on the narrative,
confusing and distracting as it is.
We have Maxine as our lady protagonist, a fraud investigator
doing business illegally since her license was revoked. Through the course of
the novel she is looking into the questionable dealings of Gabriel Ice and his computer
security company Hashslingrz, while also living her life as a mother of two,
and with an ex-husband who has been quite prominently back in the picture
recently. Somewhere in the middle of the book Maxine’s investigations begin to
tie in vaguely with the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Centre.
And this is all I can really say about the plot per-se,
given that, typically for a Pynchon novel, not a lot seems to make sense.
Everything comes together so intricately, minutely, slowly, strangely that it
would probably require more than two or three readings to fully make sense of
the narrative, and more than a short thousand word review to explain properly.
Needless to say, though, the purposely vague plot is not the
only allure of the piece. The increasingly out of place humour is mostly
endearing, low brow as most of it is, and not condescendingly either but
playfully. There is an abundance of outdated and clichéd Jewish jokes, which
really are just a bit of fun rather than meaning to be taken seriously. It can
at times become rather tiresome, though, especially when the humour is deployed
outrageously when Maxine and her connection/one-time lover Windust are being shot
at in the street. Maxine’s first reaction after they have ducked quickly behind
cover is to say, ‘”I knew I should’ve worn the Kevlar outfit today.”’ What proceeds
is a series of back-and-forth banter-style comments that seem far too easy and
lazy on the part of the author.
References to late Nineties and early Noughties pop culture also
abound, and give the sense that in the physical book itself we are holding a
rich relic of an era that is becoming increasingly remote. Music of the time is
played in the background occasionally, such as Nelly’s ‘Ride Wit Me’, which
sends this reader reeling back into his childhood. Films, computer games and
technological developments among other things are referred to or appear
directly in the narrative, skilfully utilised by a writer incredibly in tune
with the zeitgeist, and with the way these things have had an effect on our
outlook.
But in a novel lost so inextricably to humour, contemporary
pop culture and specialist computer terminology, the chances of finding a
character well-developed and loveable are pretty slim. In Bleeding Edge we are kept at a rather complicit distance. Pynchon
does not seem to want us to get too close, or to get too close himself
, so we have to struggle to find the
humanity that can make a lengthy novel like this worthwhile. And if you do
look, you will find it, little episodes huddled here and there like timid
children. One such example, and a beautiful example it is, concerning the death
of Maxine’s lover, for whom she has shown mixed feelings previously:
Later,
back in the apartment, in a widowlike observance, Maxine finds a moment alone
and switches off the lights, takes the envelope of cash, and snorts the last
vestiges of his punk-rock cologne, trying to summon back something as invisible
and weightless and inaccountable as his spirit …
Pynchon is capable, as shown
here, of rending our hearts in two, everything about his prose in this passage
being perfect, even down to that final, breath-taking ellipses.
So Pynchon’s abilities as a
writer prove to be as elusive, as all-inclusive, as the plot itself. Perhaps
there are not enough gorgeous moments that make the slogging worthwhile in Bleeding Edge, which can be frustrating,
but nevertheless they are there. This is an impressive read. It will be
important to any Pynchon fan, and its fast-paced, tight plot development will
appeal to fans of crime and mystery fiction, of which it is a bit of a literary
homage. Pynchon is still an unbelievable wordsmith, and uses the novel as his
playground. He is having fun in his playground, and invites the reader to join
in with him.
If you like this, you might also
like: White Noise by Don Dellilo, Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace, Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon.
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