It's been a prevalent notion. Fallen sparks. Fragments of vessels broken at the Creation. And someday, somehow, before the end, a gathering back to home. A messenger from the Kingdom, arriving at the last moment. But I tell you there is no such message, no such home -- only the millions of last moments . . . nothing more. Our history is an aggregate of last moments.
More Quotes from Thomas Pynchon:This spiritualist, this statistician, what are you anyway?
But as with Maxwell's Demon, so now. Either she could not communicate, or he did not exist.
Danger's over, Banana Breakfast is saved.
They plot, they plot, sleeping or afoot they never let up.
He gazes through sunlight's buttresses, back down the refectory at the others, wallowing in their plenitude of bananas, thick palatals of their hunger lost somewhere in the stretch of morning between them and himself. A hundred miles of it, so suddenly. Solitude, even among the meshes of this war, can when it wishes so take him by the blind gut and touch, as now, possessively. Pirate's again some other side of a window, watching strangers eat breakfast.
She would give them order. She would create constellations.
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Under pressure, people admit to murder, setting fire to the village church or robbing a bank, but never to being bores.