At the mountains of madness..

[Sojourner]

This message is for the lurkers, sometimes posters and seldom seen:

Harken, and put fire to the iron in your hearts.  I'm gonna tell you a
little story, and it's not about a man named Jed.

About two years ago, a spouting lunatic friend of mine came to a party
and was raving about this "crazy, wild" author named Thomas Pynchon.
The book my friend had read was Crying of Lot 49 and had been recommended
to him by his very much respected psychology teacher (experimental animal
psyche -- a wonderful department to be sure).  My friend raved on and on
about how insanely "cool" this Pynchon guy was, and how at the end of
Col49 he gave everyone the literary "finger".  And so on..

Didn't read it.  I didn't even think to.  Then another friend of mine had a 
large collection of books, which he had never read, but were the great
modern "works" of recent or still-living authors.  Instead of Melville or
JF Cooper, he had books by Pirsig, Rushdie and the like.  I also noticed
he had Gravity's Rainbow, or GR.

I borrowed it from him.  At the time, I was working the graveyard shift
in a hospital laboratory (if you come into the ER in the middle of the night,
I'm the one who would process your blood and urine samples).  Thus, I
had the time and solitude to read such a magnus opus as GR.

I was struck instantly by this book, which I partly read due to the lunatic
praise of my batty friend.  The prose seemed dense, jungly, almost impossible
to comprehend.  The characters were developed and then dropped (aka Pirate).
In essence, it was not a very good "story".  I had always admired writers
like Stephen King because regardless of the subject matter, he wrote a
very compelling STORY.  I was always spellbound like a child around a campfire
hearing ghost stories.

But GR would make a terrible oral story.  It was never meant to be a
plot-driven
oral-tradition story.  It grew on me, and it came to be an intensity for me, a
vibrant intensity which I felt within, in the mind's eye that knows what
Slothrop
looks like and talks like.  And so I came to greatly admire Mr. Pynchon and
his
ability to write a book, a literary piece of art, a worldscape using only
words.  An
amazing feat I hadn't truly felt since Faulkner and Mr. Salinger's perfect
short story
about bananafish.

So what is my point?  Listers, I came on here to celebrate this work of
art.  These WORKS of art I should say.  I am currently on 8 mailing
lists and receive approximately 140 emails a day (many due to work).
I waited to see what the tone of this list would be.  I soon learned
that there were some very educated people on this list.  There
were also some very intellectual people on this list as well (although
sorry I fail to recognize intellectual "betters").

I began to get encouraged.  I saw that not only would I have a
chance to have a community which rejoiced or profited off of
Mr. Pynchon's writings, but that their experiences and education,
their intellect and references, would all lead me to further explore
this wonderful world of ours.

In that short period of time, I know about St. Helena, an island
i'd only heard of because of their coffee.  I know who Clive of
England was, and I learned that Mason and Dixon were astronomers.
I learned that the Gloucester cheese rolling is real, and that
the Transit of Venus was how M&D first really met and got to know
eachother.  I know the difference between "meshuge" and "meshugginah".
I know ketjap.  I know about feng shui, which I had never even heard 
of before this list.  I know about the Chinese myths and the
Greek myths.  I know about Spencer-Brown's Law of Forms and
that Newton died an insane man.  And many many more...

And yet, underneath this list, through my occasionally sporadic
off-topic posts and rib-tickling goodness, there is a source of frustration
which seems strangely out of place for a group devoted to discussing
an author who has never published a political tract, or given a speech,
or even held a press conference.  In other words, the author himself
has nothing to do with this frustration.  In comparison, I am sure
Salmon Rushdie's fans have much to quibble about (I'm on a mailing
list for Sufism and the Wahhabis, Naqshbandis and Baha'i people
fight constantly).

So where is this source of confusion?  Why does the topic of moderation
come up, and when it does, why are there 50 posts about it which
degenerate into bitterness and fighting?

Folks, I can only offer this recommendation.  If you do not post often,
or feel as though your post will be ridiculed by your intellectual
"betters", I will say this:  I, if only I, support your queries and
ponderings.  

If you do not know the meaning of something, ask.
If you want to know more about something, ask.
If there is any sort of comment you wish to make, make it.

However, I will say this.  If you feel you have been wronged, yield to it
and do not reply to the list on this.  So many times in the past week
I have felt the urge to respond angrily to something, and yet
I have held my tongue, and an angry comment without a response
dies quickly.  

If you feel as though you have been insulted personally, please
just email the person (even if its me!) in private and I and they
will do their best to sort it out.

But more importantly, contribute.  Contribute even if its
just to say "wow this passage moved me".  Ask what you want
to know and if I know it, I will answer, and if someone else
knows it, they will answer, and if none of us know, we will
all try to learn from it.

Lurkers and seldom posters, please introduce yourselves.  I
feel like I know about the weekend plans of some people I
barely communicate with, and yet so many of you out there
remain hidden from me.  

I know I would love to hear how you came to read Pynchon,
whether it was from a school assignment long ago or a recommendation
of a friend.  I'm sure we'd all love to know.

Let's do a little more sharing.  If this isn't a good idea in your
opinion, please let me know.

Respectfully,

Sojourner