Pynchon-Tinasky

[jbor]

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>From: Dave Monroe <davidmmonroe at yahoo.com>
>

> ... again, do note that we are talking about what we
> all seem to presume to be a fictional character (Wanda
> Tinasky, whoever "she" might have been)

Well, no, it was a persona, because the context was letters to the editor,
not a "fiction" as such. And a racial slur is a racial slur. As Rich says:
Pynchon said he didn't write the letters, case closed; as far as I'm
concerned too.

And I think that one might be able to differentiate between the sort of
practical jokes that Pynchon endorses and indeed has practised in the real
world (eg. in sending the comedian, "Professor" Irwin Corey, along to
receive his National Book Award in 1973), and the practice of adopting a
fake persona to perpetrate the type of cowardly hate mail which might be
either generally facetious ("Wanda") or more vindictive ("big one"), by
contrasting a couple of passages from 'The Secret Integration'.

In the story, the boys' pranks are designed to "interfere with the scheming
of grown-ups" (SL 144), and Étienne's ambition to have a "career somehow
playing jokes" explicitly derives from his father's sage observation that
"the only thing a machine *can't* do is play jokes." (150: It's significant
that Étienne's father is the only parent in Mingeborough who isn't a
racist.)

In between -- directly juxtaposed -- is the scene where Tim spies his mother
on the phone:

      Tim's mother wasn't in the living room, the television was off,
    and at first he thought she might have gone out. He pulled his
    raincoat down off the hanger in the hall closet and stareted for
    the back door. Then he heard her dialing. He came around the corner,
    and there she was under the back stairs, holding the blue Princess
    telephone between her jaw and shoulder. She'd been dialing with one hand
    and holding the other in front of her in a tight, pale fist. There was
    a look on her face Tim had never seen before. A little -- what do you
    call it, nervous? scared? -- he didn't know. If she saw him there she
    gave no sign, though he'd made noise enough. The receiver stopped
    buzzing and somebody answered.
      "You niggers,: his mother spat out suddenly, "dirty niggers, get out
    of this town, go back to Pittsfield. Get out before you get into real
    trouble." Then she hung up fast. The hand that was in a fist had been
    shaking, and now her other hand, once it let go of the receiver, started
    shaking a little too. She turned swiftly, as if she'd smelled him like a
    deer; caught Tim looking at her in astonishment.
      "Oh, you," she said, beginning to smile, except for her eyes.
      "What were you doing?" Tim said, which wasn't what he'd meant to ask.
      "Oh, playing a joke, Tim," she said, "a practical joke." (147)

It's tempting to wonder whether this vividly-recalled episode derives from
experience: there are some comments here and there about P's mother's
apparent racial intolerance. (And I can't help but also see in this "big
one" typing away there in his impotent fury, his own son peeking around the
corner in numb horror or amazement ... )

      Tim shrugged and went on out the back door. "I'm going out," he told
    her, without looking back. He knew she wouldn't give him any trouble now
    about it, because he'd caught her.

best