Book review by Roy of 'Bleeding Edge' by Thomas Pynchon
Thomas Pynchon’s ‘Bleeding Edge’
For starters, see how this one sits with you (from the novel); "If there's a sensibility you really want to talk about, and not just exhibit it yourself, you need 'a deep sympathy modified by contempt'."
How does an author - though, to be fair in this case, you should refer Pynchon as the extraordinary narrator of this novel and not an author - have such a grasp of leading-edge technology? (You’ll know why he calls it ‘bleeding edge’). He has distilled the entire tech-bubble and all its highs, exuberance, irrationality and its fringe as well as leading characters in such a terse, flowing tale that you might be left wondering, as I was, what would Pynchon’s age have been when he wrote this. Let it remain a mystery unless you are ready to deal with the knowledge.
To read the synopsis at the back of this book is a grand folly – one that’s necessitated by publishers, surely, and by the standards of regular readers. Read it and dismiss it immediately.
There’s always something else you understand about the book. Try this for a notion - listen to yourself when you tell yourself about this novel and then listen to yourself when you tell some other person about the book. You’ll get my point about reading and as quickly dismissing the stuff on the back cover.
There are some novels you feel glad you picked up and started reading. There are those other novels, that you feel a dread when you are closing in on the last page.
After reading the last page of a novel as immersive and captivating as BLEEDING EDGE (by Thomas Pynchon), you feel the smokers dread; you are high and want to ride that high, but this is the end of the joint.
You revel in a foolish hope that the novel you pick next will maintain that high. It’s unlikely. Even if the next one IS great, the characters, the story, the language of the previous novel stays, and interferes with the next novel. You fall hopelessly into comparisons. What do you do? What can you do? Nothing.
BLEEDING EDGE, not once, has a character described. But damn if you don’t see them clearly in your own version, in your own head. Maxine, the main character, you hope, you knew in reality. Maxine; ballsy, cuts through the bullshit, sees situations for what they are and is responsive far ahead than your ability to grasp the speed with which stuff unfolds with Maxine.
Pynchon writes along for the characters, and is not too hung up to explain situations (the curse of an author), motivations and assumes you will get it. Of course, you get it. Now think back about novels you’ve read that get into the necessity of laying out the mat for you. Pynchon prefers to stay with the characters and let the novel unfold.
The beauty in in BLEEDING EDGE is that Pynchon doesn’t spend many words trying to get you on the same page as he is. Ultimately, as with every other novel, certainly of a grand caliber as this one, you need patience and you’ll get the rhythm of the story.
His language - across characters that are of various nationalities, inclinations, motivations, ages and representations - and the nuances of the language, is astounding.
Let the command with which Pynchon writes this novel be your sole guide.
There are times, with me at least, when I was lost about what I was reading; which character was speaking and where did this character pop up from? Had I come across this character earlier? It’s a tad frustrating if that happens.
At times the language is meaningless – to you only – because it’s that sharp and it’s that colloquial.
Now, one other aspect. There’s a sex scene in this novel. It’s barely written across two whole sentences. However, it’s impact will be...(what’s the point in having to tell you here, about it?)
A side bet; of all the sex scenes on celluloid, literature, songs, poems, in reality or in imagination you've come across, I bet this will stick.
This novel will leave you dazed and confused as the band told you. And then it will get you by the goat. This has been, if memory serves me like a slave, the slowest I’ve read a novel. Partly, because it leaves you trying to figure just where along the sidewalk you fell off at and partly, because you need the staying power. Frankly, it’s the smoker’s high – you keep waiting for it because you are expecting some point of all that deep inhalation and purposeful relaxation – and then it just comes. That’s when you aren’t sure if that high has already occurred. The body has interpreted the smoke signals way back, while you’ve sent your mind on a chase to find out if you are on a high.
Coming off that high, a simple advice, sit back and enjoy, the BLEEDING EDGE.
Disclosure (feels lofty using this term, as if you’ve already arrived in the high-brow): I picked Thomas Pynchon despite picking up ‘The Crying of Lot 49’, then reading it from Pg1 to PgThe End and wondering – what did I just read? And, now I’m on Amazon picking anything Thomas P after reading BLEEDING EDGE.
PS: If you haven’t been in the practice of reading regularly, rushing out to pick this novel might run you aground. But then, even if you read regularly, you might run aground. Treat it like a first date; best foot forward, pal. And, if you like the date, keep forging; there's always hope in promise.
I think I might've hit the nail here.
After I'd typed this, I read through two reviews; one by The Guardian and another by The NY Times.
The Guardian says; "A sense emerges of the scale of investment Pynchon demands from his reader." And, "a novel so uninterested in characters".
NY Times: "But wait. I’m acting as if we all know what it is to read Pynchon. In fact none of us do."
Official reviews:
Bleeding Edge by Thomas Pynchon – review - The Guardian
Book review: Bleeding Edge, By Thomas Pynchon - The ...
'Bleeding Edge,' by Thomas Pynchon - The New York Times
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