please, no more hate mail on Pynchon-L

[MalignD at aol.com]

Somebody wrote "nobody parodies Millison like Millison"; consider this last 
outburst--now outbursts--exhibit[s] A, B, .... n.  

One wonders, if he's so alarmed for his safety, why Millison posted his 
bizarre diatribes to the P-list?  If Terrance were nearly as unhinged as 
Millison would like to believe, he'd only have more reason to bend, fold, and 
mutilate Scoop's press card.

Millison makes reference to me and to David Morris as also having threatened 
him; a bald lie (at least in my case; David will have to speak for himself), 
unless such comments as "he ought to be shot" are to be construed as my 
planning actually to catch a plane west and gun Millison down on the mean 
California streets.  

He also refers to "[malignd's] usual ... misogyny," this from a man who 
recently described Barbara as "easy on the eyes," or some similarly trite 
reduction of her essence and being to his opinion of her looks.  (Va va va 
voom, hey Scoop?)  This of course allows that there is a Barbara somewhere 
outside Millison's peculiar and perfervid imagination.

As for Terrance's supposed lack of balance, the worst I've ever thought about 
him, judging from his posts, was "get this boy a copy of Strunk & White."  
Whereas I've long thought Millison's behavior indicative of a host of 
pathologies.  This is, after all, a man in his fifties, I would guess, who 
posts to this list a dozen times a day; who has actually nicknamed himself 
after Pynchon (Pale Fire, indeed; even Kinbote didn't name himself the 
Shadean); who reads Pynchon's novels as a peasant might entrails.  It would 
be an embarrassing spectacle, were Millison capable of embarrassment, not 
that I pity him, this hectoring so-called journalist (and has anyone actually 
ever read a news item over his byline?), although I certainly shudder when I 
consider the humiliations his wife and child must endure.

I won't say I'd be saddened by Millison's sudden demise but, lest that be 
taken as a threat, trust I mean no more than a wistful, win-the-lottery hope 
for errant lightning. 

malignd