This book took me far longer to read than I expected, for two reasons: first, I was quite ill for two weeks, and did not read a word during that entire period, and second, much of this book was very, very boring. As you might expect, this book has two narrative lines that move towards a common point, sort of (gasp), like the shape of the letter “V”. One of these branches follows the comings and goings of Benny Profane and The Whole Sick Crew, a collection of AWOL sailors, thinkers, artists, gang members and various other slackers. It has many of the elements of your standard 1950s jazz (or “beat”) novel; the characters have unbelievable names, most of the dialogue is empty with long conversations that go nowhere, many of the characters feel a manic desire for change and an even more manic desire for travel, but both manias are a species of nostalgia, not for the new state they want, but for how they felt about the state they are escaping. The prose is loose and not always well crafted, with energy and rhythm being the driving forces. This narrative branch is not very good, and seldom makes any sense, but it’s also seldom boring.
The second narrative branch (I wish I’d found another phrase to use; I’m already sick of this one) is a series of stories pieced together by the younger Stencil about a mysterious figure from his father’s past, probably a woman, who is only known by the first intial “V”. Much of these chapters (or at least, all of the first) is a rehash of Pynchon’s incredibly dull story “Under the Rose,” and it has not been improved in the retelling. His impersonation of the late Victorian voice is far from perfect, seems very much a parody, in fact, but he infuses it with the lack of clarity and sense found in the jazz sections. The result is turgid, dull, and mostly meaningless. It improves slightly as the novel progresses, but only slightly. The other major problem with these chapters is the sheer volume of characters; there are simply far too many to keep track of. Most of them are wholly insignificant to the novel as a whole, many insignificant to even the chapter in which they appear, yet Pynchon feels the need to sketch a history for each of them, and provide each with a ridiculous name that is usually in some way similar to the ridiculous name of some other character. I’m not opposed to having to work to understand and enjoy a work of fiction, but only if I feel that I will be rewarded by my labours, and only if that work has some point to it. Pynchon’s torrent of similarly named and similarly insignificant characters does nothing but get in the way, and working to sort them out brought me no intellectual reward. It was frustrating and dull.
I wasn’t disappointed not to learn who—or indeed what—”V” actually was, and there are many options to choose from, so I’m sure like most readers I have my own theories on the matter. I am disappointed that following Stencil’s search and Benny Profane’s manic idiocy yielded nothing of consequence. It is with great relief that I am finally able to put this book aside.
Next is J.M. Villaverde’s Dance of the Suitors.
