Frasi di Thomas Pynchon

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Thomas Pynchon

Data di nascita: 8. Maggio 1937

Pubblicità

Thomas Pynchon è uno scrittore statunitense.

Riconosciuto come uno dei massimi esponenti del postmoderno in letteratura, con una vasta influenza sugli autori delle generazioni seguenti, si caratterizza non solo per la scrittura labirintica ed estremamente complessa, ma anche per la categorica avversione ad apparire come personaggio pubblico: le sue foto, che si contano sulle dita di una mano, risalgono tutte al periodo scolastico e al servizio nella marina militare; per questo atteggiamento schivo e ombroso, è stato spesso paragonato a J.D. Salinger. Pynchon è anche apparso in alcuni filmati amatoriali e in un cameo nel film del 2014 Vizio di forma, tratto dal suo omonimo romanzo. Ha inoltre partecipato come doppiatore di sé stesso ad alcuni episodi della serie animata I Simpson. In realtà, come da lui detto, abita a New York senza nascondersi , ma semplicemente non viene riconosciuto non essendo "personaggio pubblico".

La sua narrativa, etichettata di volta in volta con le categorie della paranoia, dell'isteria e della densità di informazione, è oggetto di un vero e proprio culto da parte dei fan. Ogni anno Thomas Pynchon viene indicato come possibile candidato al Premio Nobel per la Letteratura, riconoscimento che puntualmente non riceve .

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Frasi Thomas Pynchon

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Pubblicità

„I want you to hold this for me, till I ask for it back. It looks like Italo is going to get here before Tamara, and I'm not sure which one“

—  Thomas Pynchon
Context: "You." A finger the size of a corncob, an inch from Slothrop's nose. ... "Look," Slothrop's friend producing a kraft-paper envelope that even in the gloom Slothrop can tell is fat with American Army yellow-seal scrip, "I want you to hold this for me, till I ask for it back. It looks like Italo is going to get here before Tamara, and I'm not sure which one" "At this rate, Tamara's gonna get here before tonight," Slothrop interjects in a Groucho Marx voice. "Don't try to undermine my confidence in you," advises the Large One. "You're the man."

„Don't try to undermine my confidence in you“

—  Thomas Pynchon
Context: "You." A finger the size of a corncob, an inch from Slothrop's nose. ... "Look," Slothrop's friend producing a kraft-paper envelope that even in the gloom Slothrop can tell is fat with American Army yellow-seal scrip, "I want you to hold this for me, till I ask for it back. It looks like Italo is going to get here before Tamara, and I'm not sure which one" "At this rate, Tamara's gonna get here before tonight," Slothrop interjects in a Groucho Marx voice. "Don't try to undermine my confidence in you," advises the Large One. "You're the man."

„What have the watchmen of the world's edge come tonight to look for? Deepening on now, monumental beings stoical, on toward slag, toward ash the colour the night will stabilize at, tonight... what is there grandiose enough to witness?“

—  Thomas Pynchon
Context: Out at the horizon, out near the burnished edge of the world, who are these visitors standing... these robed figures — perhaps, at this distance, hundreds of miles tall — their faces, serene, unattached, like the Buddha's, bending over the sea, impassive, indeed, as the Angel that stood over Lübeck during the Palm Sunday raid, come that day neither to destroy nor to protect, but to bear witness to a game of seduction... What have the watchmen of the world's edge come tonight to look for? Deepening on now, monumental beings stoical, on toward slag, toward ash the colour the night will stabilize at, tonight... what is there grandiose enough to witness?

Pubblicità

„Out at the horizon, out near the burnished edge of the world, who are these visitors standing... these robed figures —“

—  Thomas Pynchon
Context: Out at the horizon, out near the burnished edge of the world, who are these visitors standing... these robed figures — perhaps, at this distance, hundreds of miles tall — their faces, serene, unattached, like the Buddha's, bending over the sea, impassive, indeed, as the Angel that stood over Lübeck during the Palm Sunday raid, come that day neither to destroy nor to protect, but to bear witness to a game of seduction... What have the watchmen of the world's edge come tonight to look for? Deepening on now, monumental beings stoical, on toward slag, toward ash the colour the night will stabilize at, tonight... what is there grandiose enough to witness?

„Who claims Truth, Truth abandons.“

—  Thomas Pynchon
Context: Who claims Truth, Truth abandons. History is hir'd, or coerc'd, only in Interests that must ever prove base. She is too innocent, to be left within the reach of anyone in Power, — who need but touch her, and all her Credit is in the instant vanish'd, as if it had never been. She needs rather to be tended lovingly and honorably by fabulists and counterfeiters, Ballad-Mongers and Cranks of ev'ry Radius, Masters of Disguise to provide her the Costume, Toilette, and Bearing, and Speech nimble enough to keep her beyond the Desires, or even the Curiosity, of Government. Ch. 35

„Don't jump at an infinite number of possible shapes. There's only one. It is most likely an interface between one order of things and another.“

—  Thomas Pynchon
Context: No, as none of these, but instead a point in space, a point hung precise as the point where burning must end, never launched, never to fall. And what is the specific shape whose center of gravity is the Brennschluss Point? Don't jump at an infinite number of possible shapes. There's only one. It is most likely an interface between one order of things and another. There's a Brennschluss point for every firing site. They still hang up there, all of them, a constellation waiting to have a 13th sign of the Zodiac named for it...

„But the reality is in this head. Mine. I’m the projector at the planetarium, all the closed little universe visible in the circle of that stage is coming out of my mouth, eyes, sometimes other orifices also.“

—  Thomas Pynchon
Context: You don’t understand,” getting mad. “You guys, you’re like Puritans are about the Bible. So hung up with words, words. You know where that play exists, not in that file cabinet, not in any paperback you’re looking for, but—” a hand emerged from the veil of shower-steam to indicate his suspended head—“in here. That’s what I’m for. To give the spirit flesh. The words, who cares? They’re rote noises to hold line bashes with, to get past the bone barrier around an actor’s memory, right? But the reality is in this head. Mine. I’m the projector at the planetarium, all the closed little universe visible in the circle of that stage is coming out of my mouth, eyes, sometimes other orifices also. Chapter 3

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