Finished #TheCryingOfLot49
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But it was a calculated withdrawal, from the life of the Republic,from its machinery. Whatever else was being denied them out of hate,indifference to the power of their vote,loopholes, simple ignorance,this withdrawal was their own….
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“And I feel him, certain days, days of a certain temperature," said Mr Thoth, "and barometric pressure. Did you know that? I feel him close to me."
"Your grandfather?"
"No, my God."
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“Look, you have to help me. Because I really think I am going out of my head."
"You have the wrong outfit, Arnold.
Talk to your clergyman."
"I use the U. S. Mail because I was never taught any different," she pleaded. "But I'm not your enemy….”
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You're chicken, she told herself, snapping her seat belt. This is America, you live in it, you let it happen. Let it unfurl.
She had heard all about excluded middles; they were bad shit, to be avoided; and how had it ever happened here, with the chances once so good for diversity?
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What the road really was, she fancied, was this hypodermic needle, inserted somewhere ahead into the vein of a freeway, a vein nourishing the mainliner L.A., keeping it happy, coherent, protected from pain, or whatever passes, with a city, for pain.
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Like many named places in California it was less an identifiable city than a grouping of concepts—census tracts, special purpose bond-issue districts, shopping nuclei, all overlaid with access roads to its own freeway.
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Someday she might replace whatever of her had gone away by some prosthetic device, a dress of a certain color, a phrase in a letter, another lover.
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What's your name?" Oedipa said. "Winthrop Tremaine," replied the spirited entrepreneur, "Winner, for short.
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In Golden Gate Park she came on a circle of children in their nightclothes, who told her they were dreaming the gathering.
black to svmbolize the only thing that truly belonged to them in their exile: the night.
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" No hallowed skein of stars can ward, I trow,'" quoted Oedipa, Who's once been set his tryst with Trystero.' Courier's Tragedy, Act IV, Scene 8."
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Under the symbol she'd copied off the latrine wall of The Scope into her memo book, she wrote Shall I project a world?
With her own eyes she had verified a WASTE svlystem: seen two WASTE postmen, a WASTE mailbox, WASTE stamps, WASTE cancellations. And the image of the muted post horn all but saturating the Bay Area! Yet she wanted it all to be fantasy-
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She knew, because she had held him, that he suffcred DT's. Behind the initials was a metaphor, a delirium tremens, a trembling unfurrowing of the mind's plowshare.
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there had to exist the separate, silent, unsuspected world.
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Whatever else was being denied them out of hate, indifference to the power of their vote, loopholes, simple ignorance, this withdrawal was their own, unpublicized, private. Since they could not have withdrawn into a vacuum (could they?),
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This night's profusion of post horns, this malignant, deliberate replication, was their way of beating up. They knew her pressure points, and the ganglia of her optimism, and one by one, pinch by precision pinch, they were immobilizing her.
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Having no apparatus except gut fear and female cunning to examine this formless magic, to understand how it works, how to measure its field strength…If the tower is everywhere and the knight of deliverance no proof against its magic, what else?
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What did she so desire escape from? Such a captive maiden…soon realizes that her tower, its height and architecture…that what really keeps her where she is is magic, anonymous and malignant, visited on her from outside and for no reason at all.
Decorating each alienation, cach species of withdrawal, as cufflink, decal, aimless doodling, there was somehow always the post horn.
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Nobody knows anvbody else's name; just the number in case it gets so bad you can't handle it alone. We're isolates, Arnold. Meetings would destroy the whole point of it."
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"I'll tell you what I know, then," he decided. "The pin I'm wearing means I'm a member of the IA. That's Inamorati Anonymous. An inamorato is somebodv in love. That's the worst addiction of all."
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Then where, Oedipa wondered, does the paperback I bought at Zapf's get off with its "Trystero? line? Was there yet another edition, besides the Quarto, Folio, and "Whitechapel fragment?
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“I don't know," she said,a little desperate. "Metzger,don't harass me. Be on my side."
"Against whom?" inquired Metzger, putting on shades.
"I want to see if there's a connection. I'm curious."
"Yes, you're curious," Metzger said. “I’ll wait in the car….”
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“Why are you walking around," inquired Oedipa, "with your eyes closed, Metzger?"
"Larceny," Metzger said, "maybe they'll need a lawyer."
