ENG 580: Literary PoMo I'm gonna make you an offer you can't understand...

ernesto, jacobian revenge plays, and other topics

So.  Ernesto hurls toward us, and I've just finished walking the dog.  We're both a little damp, and we both smell of wet dog and canned soup.  I have on my coffee table a copy of The Crying of Lot 49, and I had a few questions before I continue my reading.

I'm a little perplexed by the development of a classic "detective plot" and its relation to what I thought was the central string of the novel.  Trying to keep in mind that I am reading Pynchon, I wonder if that's the point.  Is this classic Pynchon irony?  Will the detective plot unravel into brilliant madness?  Is he throwing me off intentionally?  Am I still having difficulty shedding my staid Presbyterian roots?

I find that Pynchon has led me to a deep existential crisis.

The ten page summary of the Jacobian revenge play did, however, fill me with joy.

Thoughts?

Mystery Man

Ok, so who is the bald bespectacled chap?  I'm entirely unfamiliar with the bodily representations of pomo Authors (or their corresponding Writers for that matter).

testing one, two...

Ah. This is just a test entry, but I did (somewhat voyeuristically) want to share this very weird dream that visited in the wee hours of the morning. My cat woke me up, as usual, by howling at the footend of our bed. After yelling something unfriendly, I went back to sleep, but it was as if, when descending back into the unconscious, I had taken the bookshelf-elevator and was suddenly transported into a world in which our apartment looked just like my grandmother's ex-apartment. We woke up in that world to brown water stains on the ceiling. The bathtub had, in the meanwhile, acquired the same disease as the cursed pirates in Dead Man's Chest. I got a call from my ex-job, which I took on the remote that opens my car, and was told by an ex-co-worker who has five kids that she was in charge now. At that point I was late for my ex-job and tried to overcome my disgust of the diseased bathtub so I could wash my hair. Postmodern baptism?