The Crying of Lot 49

Thomas Pynchon's novel of postal conspiracies, the dawn of the counter-culture, and the relaxed social norms of 1960's Southern California is considered classic enough to make Time Magazine's 2005 list of the 100 best English-language novels from 1923 to the present. This is opposed to the year 1966, when an unnamed critic from this same magazine, in reference to this same book, lamented, "What is the meaning of the gibberish literature that is currently being published as fast as it can be gibbered?" I mention these things for two reasons: Mainly because I found the snarky commentary by Time's unknown reviewer to be funnier than anything I read in 'The Crying of Lot 49', but also because I suspect that the opinion on this book still ranges between classic and gibberish.

Despite its intricate wordplay and oddball narrative - characteristics that certainly have their charms - there are several reasons why I didn't connect with 'Lot 49'. The primary one is that Mr. Pynchon's writing comes across as very self-satisfied. I could probably study 'Lot 49' for a long time, and find something new years from now, but I just couldn't muster much interest in the clues he left during my first reading. I found myself racing to the end of this short book, on past the standard post-modern ambiguous ending, and glad to move on to something else.

Oedipa Maas, housewife, is asked to serve as executrix for the estate of her former lover, the mutli-millionaire Pierce Inverarity. As she delves deeper into the labyrinth of Pierce's holdings, she discovers (maybe) a strange conspiracy concerning an ages old postal feud, one that, once noticed, seems to stretch into every facet of life. Aside from some rather dated commentary on the lifestyles of the mid-sixties, the book's main thrust appears to be not so much the mystery that Oedipa uncovers, but the existential effect it has on her.

I feel like much of 'The Crying of Lot 49' is cleverness for cleverness' sake (like the names Oedipa Maas and Pierce Inverarity, for example). In this way it reminds me of David Foster Wallace's fiction - original, skillful, but ultimately unsatisfying. (I suppose I should say that Wallace reminds me of Pynchon, since Pynchon came first - but I was already familiar with DFW). Actually, I've come to realize that I feel this way about most post-modern lit, and certainly about 'Lot 49' - that it lacks substance (my disclaimer here is that I often feel like these books would have held a lot more appeal for me when I was a younger man). It's as if the author, highly educated and incredible facile as a writer is at a loss for something pertinent to say, and, in order to avoid churning out a morality play, instead turns to self-absorbed tales of highly educated and incredibly facile characters who are at a loss for something pertinent in their lives. This sort of writing would naturally appeal to highly educated, incredibly facile people - especially those who feel they're still missing something from life. But while they may identify with the situation, I don't think they'll find any balm for their misery except company.

The first chapter is interesting enough to keep you reading, but it gets tiresome quite rapidly. The characters, funny as they may be - initially - are getting mired in a strange theory of conspiracy.
Unfortunately, the plot doesn't stick and the reader looses interest in it. After the VERY long description of the "Courier's Tragedy" play you are left with the feeling that enough is enough...I understand the pivotal, crucial part the play has in the book but still...devoting such a long chapter to it is an overkill.
The only motive to keep on reading is that the book is short, Pynchon is a true master of the English language, funny / interesting situations appear from time to time and one expects Pynchon to deliver.
This does not happen and the book ends leaving the reader with the feeling that he/she couldn't care more if the conspiracy detailed really had a base in reality or not.

`The Crying of Lot 49' takes us on a winding, convoluted, terrifying roller coaster through a world that seems to be a few steps closer to that of Lewis Carroll's `Alice in Wonderland' than our own. The work itself refuses to be read at a pace any less than how it intends, and that often crazed pace creates a response within the reader of confusion, urgency, and uncertainty, all driven by a maddening obsession that ultimately leads the reader on a journey to search for the truth.

This piece has a tendency to observe the reader, as if it were self-aware. It sits, patiently knowing it will soon be picked up; it waits to be read through from start to finish in a few short days (or sittings); it waits for the reader to set down the recently pristine paperback. Now riddled with creases and slick with the grime of sweaty palms, it begins to grin as the telltale look of consternation and disbelief cross the reader's face, and, with maniacal glee, for their lips to part and the words to escape, giving voice to all the thoughts you will surely be left with after this book is done.

'Lot 49' singlehandedly explained a semesters Literary Theory course to me. While I had a lot of trouble specifically defining the purpose of literary criticism most of the course, the amazingly poignant truths that shine through the maddening uncertainty made a very lasting impact on me, and I think they will do so for many people to come.