The Crying of Lot 49 (Perennial Fiction Library)

The Crying of Lot 49 (Perennial Fiction Library)

Thomas Pynchon

Language: English

Pages: 192

ISBN: 006091307X

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


The highly original satire about Oedipa Maas, a woman who finds herself enmeshed in a worldwide conspiracy, meets some extremely interesting characters, and attains a not inconsiderable amount of self knowledge.

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More closely at its outside, when it arrived. At first she didn’t see. It was an ordinary Muchoesque envelope, swiped from the station, ordinary airmail stamp, to the left of the cancellation a blurb put on by the government, REPORT All Obscene Mail To Your Potsmaster. Idly, she began to skim back through Mucho’s letter after reading it to see if there were any dirty words. “Metzger,” it occurred to her, “what is a potsmaster?” “Guy in the scullery,” replied Metzger authoritatively from the.

Advance against any settlement in this suit.” “You’re all ready to lose, then,” she said. “My heart isn’t in it,” Di Presso admitted, “and if I can’t even keep up payments on that XKE I bought while temporarily insane, how can I lend money?” “Over 30 years,” Metzger snorted, “that’s temporary.” “I’m not so crazy I don’t know trouble,” Di Presso said, “and Tony J. is in it, friends. Gambling mostly, also talk he’s been up to show cause to the local Table why he shouldn’t be in.

Or wavered violently before she could take the brush away. She’d been up most of the night, after another three-in-the-morning phone call, its announcing bell clear cardiac terror, so out of nothing did it come, the instrument one second inert, the next screaming. It brought both of them instantly awake and they lay, joints unlocking, not even wanting to look at each other for the first few rings. She finally, having nothing she knew of to lose, had taken it. It was Dr Hilarius, her shrink or.

Lineman’s tent like caterpillars, swung among a web of telephone wires, living in the very copper rigging and secular miracle of communication, untroubled by the dumb voltages flickering their miles, the night long, in the thousands of unheard messages. She remembered drifters she had listened to, Americans speaking their language carefully, scholarly, as if they were in exile from somewhere else invisible yet congruent with the cheered land she lived in; and walkers along the roads at night,.

English accent when you don’t talk that way?” “It’s this group I’m in,” Miles explained, “the Paranoids. We’re new yet. Our manager says we should sing like that. We watch English movies a lot, for the accent.” “My husband’s a disk jockey,” Oedipa trying to be helpful, “it’s only a thousand-watt station, but if you had anything like a tape I could give it to him to plug.” Miles closed the door behind them and started in with the shifty eye. “In return for what?” Moving in on her.

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