Bleeding Edge

Bleeding Edge by Thomas Pynchon (2013) I will be a lifelong fan of Thomas Pynchon because my experience of reading one of his books, Gravity's Rainbow (1973), was one of the most profound and intense reading experiences of my life. I read the entire book while riding the subway to and from work in New York City (thus, I read it primarily standing up and holding onto a metal bar with one hand). In order to read that book, I had to change the way I read—best I can describe it—to something more akin to listening to music. It was kind of a beautiful experience. If I was to be quizzed on the ins and outs, however, at this point, I'd no doubt fail the multiple choice. (I might be able to connect on an essay question, who knows.) Anyway, my writing has probably been influenced too much by Pynchon; so be it. Other books of his, like Vineland (1990), I've carried around for years (love that cover!) but have never been able to get into. (I have a feeling I'd like to reread The Crying of Lot 49.) This book, Bleeding Edge (2013), could possibly be Thomas Pynchon's last—I hope not, because nothing would make me happier than for him to come out with another one, and for me to be alive and of sound mind to read it. A big part of me not being able to connect (at least with my heart) to this book is that its scope is roughly the days of 11 September—which of arguably The Trauma of a generation. This may be the book for (among future Pynchon fanatics) those readers without a conscious memory of the event—people who are just now reaching Pynchon reading age. (What's more, it might even more the book for people born 15 years after 11 September.) I loved the protagonist, middle-aged mom, fraud investigator, Maxine Tarnow, who leads us through the story. The peripheral characters, and the story, not so much, as there are certain realms of conspiracy culture that send me in the other direction faster than a “MASH” (TV series—not mentioned in this book, I don't think) rerun. (For whatever reason, though, I'm endlessly onboard with “Gilligan's Island” and “The Brady Bunch.”) I realize with my own writing, the danger of trafficking in cultural references—whether film buff, Classical, or Pop—which carry the danger of alienating readers, who either get them or don't. (And how much work is the reader willing to do, even with “research” being the new channel surfing.) I know there are Pynchon websites that catalog his references, pop culture and otherwise—and if anyone's counting (I kind of hope not) this book might set some kind of record. You have to kind of love a guy, though, who in the midst of writing about some pretty serous stuff, manages to work in a pun (requiring a bit of buildup... someone's watching “Scooby Goes Latin!” (1990)) like, “And I would've got away with it, too, if it hadn't been for those Medellín kids!”