The ​Crying of Lot 49 13 csillagozás

Thomas Pynchon: The Crying of Lot 49 Thomas Pynchon: The Crying of Lot 49 Thomas Pynchon: The Crying of Lot 49 Thomas Pynchon: The Crying of Lot 49 Thomas Pynchon: The Crying of Lot 49 Thomas Pynchon: The Crying of Lot 49

The highly original satire about Oedipa Maas, a woman who finds herself enmeshed in a worldwide conspiracy, meets some extremely interesting characters, and attains a not inconsiderable amount of self knowledge.

Eredeti megjelenés éve: 1966

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HarperCollins, London, 2006
192 oldal · ISBN: 9780060913076
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Vintage, London, 2000
142 oldal · puhatáblás · ISBN: 9780099532613

Enciklopédia 1


Kedvencelte 1

Most olvassa 1

Várólistára tette 4

Kívánságlistára tette 1


Kiemelt értékelések

Black_Venus>!
Thomas Pynchon: The Crying of Lot 49

Üldözési mániában szenvedőknek, Shakespeare-imádóknak, bélyeggyűjtőknek és bosszúálló anglománoknak kötelező, és mindenkinek ajánlott, aki valaha randizott postással.
Talán egyszer bővebben is kifejtem, addig is: majdnem új kedvencet avattam.

8 hozzászólás
Banditaa P>!
Thomas Pynchon: The Crying of Lot 49

Ez a könyv úgy ment el mellettem, hogy még csak pillantást se váltottunk. Nem volt cinkos félmosoly, kacsintás, semmi. Nem mondom, hogy rossz a könyv, de én nem találtam hozzá kapcsolódási pontot (pedig postás családból származom). Ami leginkább zavart benne az a koherencia hiánya, nekem teljesen random volt az egész és helyenként erőltettnek éreztem a nagy(nak szánt) összefüggéseket. Az egész könyv olyan volt, mint amikor túl nagy feneket kerítünk valaminek, ami nem is fontos…

tees06>!
Thomas Pynchon: The Crying of Lot 49

Nem lett a kedvencem a regény, amelynek egyetlen oka az volt, hogy iszonyatosan kusza a története. Az elején elkezdődik egy cselekmény, majd egyre jobban és jobban bonyolódik. Végül azonban nem kapunk teljes választ.

_Amalia>!
Thomas Pynchon: The Crying of Lot 49

Az utolsó mondat utánig(!) reménykedtem abban, hogy találok valamit, bármit, amitől nem fogom elpocsékolt időnek érezni az olvasásával töltött időt. Hát, nem nyert… (kötelező volt, és a tanár az egekig magasztalta)


Népszerű idézetek

Black_Venus>!

One summer afternoon Mrs Oedipa Maas came home from a Tupperware party whose hostess had put perhaps too much kirsch in the fondue to find that she, Oedipa, had been named executor, or she supposed executrix, of the estate of one Pierce Inverarity, a California real estate mogul who had once lost two million dollars in his spare time but still had assets numerous and tangled enough to make the job of sorting it all out more than honorary.

(első mondat)

Black_Venus>!

Despair came over her, as it will when nobody around has any sexual relevance to you.

Black_Venus>!

She touched the edge of its voluptuous field, knowing it would be lovely beyond dreams simply to submit to it; that not gravity's pull, laws of ballistics, feral ravening, promised more delight. She tested it, shivering: I am meant to remember. Each clue that comes is supposed to have its own clarity, its fine chances for permanence. But then she wondered if the gemlike „clues” were only some kind of compensation. To make up for her having lost the direct, epileptic Word, the cry that might abolish the night.

Kapcsolódó szócikkek: álom
Black_Venus>!

She could, at this stage of things, recognize signals like that, as the epileptic is said to—an odor, color, pure piercing grace note announcing his seizure. Afterward it is only this signal, really dross, this secular announcement, and never what is revealed during the attack, that he remembers. Oedipa wondered whether, at the end of this (if it were supposed to end), she too might not be left with only compiled memories of clues, announcements, intimations, but never the central truth itself, which must somehow each time be too bright for her memory to hold; which must always blaze out, destroying its own message irreversibly, leaving an overexposed blank when the ordinary world came back.

Black_Venus>!

[Oedipa Maas] awoke at last to find herself getting laid.

Black_Venus>!

If the tower is everywhere and the knight of deliverance no proof against its magic, what else?

Black_Venus>!

…part of me must have really wanted to believe--like a child hearing, in perfect safety, a tale of horror--that the unconscious would be like any other room, once the light was let in. That the dark shapes would resolve only into toy horses and Biedermeyer furniture. That therapy could tame it after all, bring it into society with no fear of its someday reverting. I wanted to believe, despite everything my life had been. Can you imagine?

NLaci_21>!

The fifth act, entirely an anticlimax, is taken up by the bloodbath Gennaro visits on the court of Squamuglia. Every mode of violent death available to Renaissance man, including a lye pit, land mines, a trained falcon with envenom'd talons, is employed. It plays, as Metzger remarked later, like a Road Runner cartoon in blank verse.

58. oldal

NLaci_21>!

That's what I'm for. To give the spirit flesh. The words, who cares? They're rote noises to hold line bashes with, to get past the bone barriers around an actor's memory, right? But the reality is in this head. Mine. I'm the projector at the planetarium, all the closed little universe visible in the circle of that stage is coming out of my mouth, eyes, sometimes other orifices also.

62. oldal


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