Sunday, February 18, 2007
The middle sixties thereafter soon arrived with the funniest description of music criticism in literature:
"Whenever I put the headset on now," he'd continued, "I really do understand what I find there. When those kids sing about 'She loves you,' yeah well, you know, she does, she's any number of people, all over the world, back through time, different colors, sizes, ages, shapes, distances from death, but she loves. And the 'you' is everybody. And herself. Oedipa, the human voice, you know, it's a flipping miracle." His eyes brimming, reflecting the color of beer.
"Baby," she said, helpless, knowing of nothing she could do for this, and afraid for him.
He put a little clear plastic bottle on the table between them. She stared at the pills in it, and then understood. "That's LSD?" she said.
(T. Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49)
[Disclaimer: I've only read V and that was more than 30 years ago. My critical assessment -- I have none, I didn't take to the book] ¶ 2/18/2007 06:06:00 PM
"Whenever I put the headset on now," he'd continued, "I really do understand what I find there. When those kids sing about 'She loves you,' yeah well, you know, she does, she's any number of people, all over the world, back through time, different colors, sizes, ages, shapes, distances from death, but she loves. And the 'you' is everybody. And herself. Oedipa, the human voice, you know, it's a flipping miracle." His eyes brimming, reflecting the color of beer.
"Baby," she said, helpless, knowing of nothing she could do for this, and afraid for him.
He put a little clear plastic bottle on the table between them. She stared at the pills in it, and then understood. "That's LSD?" she said.
(T. Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49)
[Disclaimer: I've only read V and that was more than 30 years ago. My critical assessment -- I have none, I didn't take to the book] ¶ 2/18/2007 06:06:00 PM
