And the purity, the geometry, the cold.

- from Against the Day by Thomas Pynchon

Sometimes, it's almost too much to bear: a mere 175-ish pages into it and I'm tempted to label Against the Day one of the greatest epic(-length) poems ever.

I know, I know, having me surface every couple weeks after reading another twenty pages only to say "OMG the language" isn't really useful to you. I'd really like to write some more about the book's spiritual concerns, its interest in the invisible, the unspeakable, and the unknowable; its interest in global living; in power, electric and political; in adventure and excitement; in destruction and folly. But then, that would be terribly reductionist. And right now, as much as I want to talk about it, I'm even more interested in not reducing it. I'm no longer reading this book because it's by the guy who wrote V. and Gravity's Rainbow; I'm reading this book because it is Against the Day.

All of which is still total claptrap, but.