Thomas Pynchon. ENTROPY. B3oris has just given me a sumnmary of his views. He is a weather prophet. The weather will continue bad, he says. There will be. Pynchon inscribed a couple copies of his short story “Entropy” to UNIX pioneer Greg Chesson, using Isaac Newton’s Second Law equation. Entropy. [, , ] by. Thomas Pynchon. Boris has just given me a summary of his views. He is weather prophet. The weather will continue bad, he.
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Boris has just given me a summary of his views. He is weather prophet. The weather will continue bad, he says. There will be more calamities, more death, more despair.
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Not the slightest indication of a change anywhere…. We must get into step, a lockstep toward the prison of death. There pynchoh no escape.
The weather will not change. On the kitchen floor, amid a litter of empty champagne fifths, fhomas Sandor Rojas and three friends, playing spit in the ocean and staying awake on Heidseck and benzedrine pills.
Thomas Pynchon, Entropy
They all wore hornrimmed sunglasses and rapt expressions, and smoked funny-looking cigarettes which contained not, as you might expect, tobacco, but an adulterated form of cannabis sativa. This group was the Duke di Angelis quartet.
From time to time one of them would flick the ashes entroph his cigarette into the speaker cone to watch them dance around. Meatball himself was sleeping over by the window, holding an empty magnum to dntropy chest as if it were a teddy bear. Several government girls, who worked for people like the State Department and NSA, had passed out on couches, chairs and in one case the bathroom sink.
Everyone saw a fine irony in this. They would haunt Armenian delicatessens for weeks at a stretch and invite you over for bulghour and lamb in tiny kitchens whose walls were covered with bullfight posters. Outside there was rain. Rain splatted against the tar paper on the roof and was fractured into a fine spray off the noses, eyebrows and lips of wooden gargoyles under the eaves, and ran like drool down the windowpanes.
The day before, it had snowed and the day before that there had been winds of gale force and before that the sun had made the city glitter bright as April, though the calendar read early February. It is a curious season in Washington, this false spring. And as every good Romantic knows, the soul spiritus, ruach, pneuma is nothing, substantially, but air; it is only natural that warpings in the atmosphere should be recapitulated in those who breathe it.
View all posts by Biblioklept. Reblogged this on kdwilsonauthorblog. Jacket design by Fred Marcellino.
Read “Entropy,” a short story by Thomas Pynchon
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