The Accidental Maximalist

Thomas Pynchon weaves worlds where paranoia is the Jealous God pulling the strings on the lives of seemingly ordinary people. The nondescript is put under the microscope to be magnified and dissected as possible parts of “the plot”. In this world, nothing is random—even that guy down the street you made accidental eye-contact with—no, especially that guy down the street you made accidental eye-contact with. From simple housewives to soldiers of fortune, anyone could be on the cross hairs of a series of accidents that when stitched together form a tapestry that will reveal you to be a mere pawn in the grand scheme of things instead of the protagonist you believed yourself to be because of paranoid delusions.

There are two reasons why I would like to live in a Pynchonesque world; one, is because as someone who used to suffer tremendously from OCD, this is the only world I once knew how to live in. That nagging feeling of something about to go wrong, or that something’s just not right, a kind of burning whose temporary quenching gives way to a vicious cycle of ever-increasing fires—these feelings of anxiety I would quell with preposterous rituals such as locking myself up in the bathroom to spin myself on tiptoes exactly four times, among others, are testament to the distress I share with the main characters in a Thomas Pynchon novel. I may not be a Psychiatrist to know the difference between paranoia and anxiety, but I imagine the feeling is damn similar. To immerse myself in a Pynchonesque fictional world would be to put things in perspective regarding the illness I emerged from. It would give me the chance to see what I used to suffer from and how stronger I’ve become since then. From the staccato rhythm which inundates the ears of a paranoia-stricken individual there is always a song of hope; however in my world, my ears are deaf to such music. The jarring notes are on loop, and the Fat Lady has yet to sing.

Looking back to that time in my life through living in this kind of fictional world, I am apt to give a sigh of relief that it’s finally over. To borrow a Science Fiction term, it’s like a force field is conjured up out of thin air to protect me from the bale of paranoid delusions and anxiety. The other reason is simpler: Thomas Pynchon’s writing is cool as hell. Reading Pynchon is like eating at a fine-dining restaurant and there are courses to the meal. Even the sub-plots (which for the sake of metaphor let’s say are the appetizers) are exquisite. Whether it’s forcing sewer rats to convert to Christianity or a giant Adenoid going on a rampage on the streets of London, Pynchon knows how to make weapons out of words. The result is often harrowing, but not without its perks. To take a specific book, “The Crying Of Lot 49” made me second-guess every event in my life for a while. The haunting thought of being a normal person living a normal life and then all of a sudden getting entwined in a maelstrom of conspiracies, plus the possibility that that person could be you, would keep anyone up at night. Or maybe not. However, it is not always bleak in Pynchon’s fictional world. The trope of Good always triumphs over Evil is always present, but it is never as simple. Pynchon never shies away from recognizing that evil exists and that mankind, when left to his own devices, is morally corrupt. This aspect of his fictional world is endearing to me because it is hyper-realistic in a gut-punching, hit-you-like-a-hurricane kind of way, and I want my world to be rich in sensations, to match the colorful inner-self I have in contrast to the gun-metal grey that is my persona. Yes, I have all the characteristics of “normal,” however one fine day... and so goes the story.