It's always something getting sucked into a Pynchon novel. Vineland is no exception.Being the saga of a daughter on the run, seeking to understand a mother she has never known, the story makes use of some of Pynchon's favorite tools. Entropy and conspiracy. Paranoia. Calculated frenzy in weird liminalities, sometimes bordering on the supernatural. And always, strands of interconnectedness, as you piece together the puzzle. As you fractal into and back out of story layers; into and back out of characters' pasts and presents. And, purposefully, it's always a conspiracy with a missing piece of context. Because he wants the reader to be a bit paranoid too; a bit unsure. Which, I mean, that's where the fun begins. Plus one gets the feeling that these "missing" pieces aren't actually missing at all, but are in plain sight, waiting to be discovered at the end of the novel, or on the next read, or the one after that.You'll find here the typical genre-bending that Pynchon is known for, offering commentary on government; media; the countercultural and technological revolutions. At once a political thriller; a stoner comedy; a ninja film. And of course, much more. His writing is at once silly, nonsensical, but also mystical, atavistic. Manic federal prosecutors here share the page with ghost tribes just trying to adjust their karma. Ethereal dentists rub shoulders with FBI informants. Undercover wedding bands, mountain-dwelling ninja nuns, revolutionary film collectives... Sounds like him, doesn't it?I will say, as much as I enjoyed the book, I feel like he could have carved off a hundred pages or so without losing a ton. Unlike something like V., or even more so Gravity's Rainbow, where the length of the work is itself a feature, immersing you in this endless saga; unlike those works, Vineland I think could have benefited from a shorter runtime a la Lot 49. Be that as it may, it is a worthy entry in Pynchon's oeuvre.0
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