Two facing rows of storefronts receded steeply down the packed-earth street. Where the buildings ended, nothing could be seen above the surface of the street, no horizon, no countryside, no winter sky, only an intense radiance filling the gap, a halo or glory out of which anything might emerge, into which anything might be taken, a portal of silver transfiguration, as if being displayed from the viewpoint of (let us imagine) a fallen gunfighter.

- from Against the Day by Thomas Pynchon

Hell if I know how to discuss or react to this book, 1005 pages into it. Summaries and discussions are by nature reductive, and this is a book that completely resists reduction. This much is true, though: every now and then, however dazed and on-autopilot I feel about the thing? There's some little tough little grassy patch of language that can't be stepped past lightly. Cuz, hot damn.