A first novel on steroids

Spanish Edition.

V. by Thomas Pynchon.

V. is… well… Pynchon. A young Pynchon, to be precise. As the other books I had read of him it is a tough cookie to munch, no news there; this one in particular is hard to read and feels a bit disperse, but it has all the elements which he will further develop.

I guess Pynchon is one of those authors you love or hate, not because of the complexity but because of his style, and in this first novel there is not only the promise for what is to come, but a first declaration of how things work. It is like an onion to peel, how far you want to go? How many layers are? Fruitless question really, as with many things, you have to go to where you enjoy, even if you are in a restless mood, maybe not wanting to go in deep with detail and just wander in the craziness of the plot, it always leaves an itch, a curiosity to satisfy. You don´t have to get everything, nor notice all the neurotic details and references, just enjoy the ride.

For me is an obsessive book about obsessions, a kind of juvenile yearning to understand the mystery of women (a woman, V., women, but is there a difference?), to masturbate in thought but not caring enough to leave the myth behind, a touch of intrigue, social commentary, political and historical face value and its hypocrisy… ok, more than a touch if you wish, at moments fun, just bonkers fun and then heavy and dense.

In the end, a huge part of it is going to live in the ominous black hole of oblivion in my brain (that´s my fault really, my memory is so glitchy), there is just too much to cover, but there are many things that remain vivid and Pynchon is fascinating to read, so perhaps I can’t be objective: just handle with irreverent care.