Oct 8, 2025
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"Get to reading too much crime fiction in the magazines, start thinking it's all about who done it. What really happened. Hidden history. Oh, yeah. Seeing all the cards at the end of a hand. For some, that kinda thing gets religious mighty quick."
(Not really a blog about) Pynchon in Public Day, 2026
Unless my math or some established facts are incorrect, Thomas Pynchon turned 89 today. As far as I can tell, the first time I posted something Pynchon-related on Pynchon’s birthday (May 8, obv), was a portrait by James Jean, back in 2013. The next year I directly recognized the date of his birth in a round-up post, and the year after that I recognized what has been semi-formalized into “Pynchon…
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Shadow Ticket (2025)
Thomas Pynchon
Penguin Press
What one of them should have been saying was “We’re in the last minutes of a break that will seem so wonderful and peaceable and carefree. If anybody’s around to remember. Still trying to keep on with it before it gets too dark. Until finally we turn to look back the way we came, and there’s that last light bulb, once so bright, now feebly flickering, about to burn out, and it’s well past time to be saying, Florsheims, let’s ambulate.
“Stay or go. Two fates beginning to diverge—back to the U.S., marry, raise a family, assemble a life you can persuade yourself is free from fear, as meanwhile, over here, the other outcome continues to unfold, to roll in dark as the end of time. Those you could have saved, could’ve shifted at least somehow onto a safer stretch of track, are one by one robbed, beaten, killed, seized and taken away into the nameless, the unrecoverable.
“Until one night, too late, you wake into an understanding of what you should have been doing with your life all along.”
-Thomas Pynchon, Shadow Ticket
The wily old coot did it to me again 😭
I was gratefully astonished to get a new novel from my favourite 88-year-old postmodernist goof, let alone have it be such a banger. But Pynchon is still out here having a *ball* with his writing, and 'Shadow Ticket' is a crackling libretto of 1930s slang and pseudohistory and noir personas glowing around their radioactive edges. Even as one of Pynchon's slighter joints, it's still filled with sentences so audaciously packed that they make the world feel too full to ever fit in words, and moments amongst the silliness where reverence cold-clocks you from a devious angle. It's such a treat. For a guy with as many imitators as he has, it's incredible that still nobody can quite do what Pynchon does.
Guess who has two thumbs and got Shadow Ticket for Christmas!
This nerd!
