AtDTDA: [38] p. 1085 They fly towards grace.

[robinlandseadel at comcast.net]

          Dave Monroe:
          Does this ending seem to imply, at least, an uncharcteristic 
          transcendence here?  Certainly, those Pynchonian 
          demnouments have (seemingly, at any rate) been rather more 
          upbeat (perhaps even less equivocal) since Gravity's Rainbow, but ...

Seemingly is the word for it, in Vineland we get:

          . . . . sleeping then unvisited till around dawn, with fog still 
          in the hollows, deer and cows grazing together in the meadow, 
          sun blinding in the cobwebs on the wet grass, a redtail 
          hawk in an updraft soaring above the ridgeline, Sunday 
          morning about to unfold, when Prairie woke to a warm and 
          persistent tongue all over her face. It was Desmond, none 
          other, the spit and image of his grandmother Chloe, 
          roughened by the miles, face full of blue-jay feathers, 
          smiling out of his eyes, wagging his tail, thinking he must 
          be home. 

. . . .but this segues out of:

          . . . .Prairie would hear about this the next day, having seen 
          Alexei only as far as the Vomitone van, when she'd regretfully 
          peeled away to return, terrified but obliged, to the clearing 
          where she'd had her visit from Brock Yond. He had left too 
          suddenly. There should have been more. She lay in her 
          sleeping bag, trembling, face up, with the alder and the Sitka 
          spruce still dancing in the wind, and the stars thickening 
          overhead. "You can come back," she whispered, waves of 
          cold sweeping over her, trying to gaze steadily into a night 
          that now at any turn could prove unfaceable. "It's OK, rilly. 
          Come on, come in. I don't care. Take me anyplace you want. . . ."

Perhaps Desmond's return denotes a return to the natural order.
But Prairie Wheeler still has it in her blood, lust for the powerful 
seems to be another aspect of "the natural order." Seemingly upbeat, 
enough to leave one "humming the tune", so to speak. But the  "the 
indispensable Italian Wedding Fake book by Delueze & Guattari" 
is still in the Vomitones van, ready to provide more classics for 
Fascist Toejam to cover at future Mob Weddings.

Or perhaps the end of Mason & Dixon?:

          "Since I was ten," said Doc, "I wanted you to take me and 
          Willy to America. I kept hoping, ev'ry Birthday, this would be 
          the year. I knew next time you'd take us." 

          "We can get jobs," said William, "save enough to go out 
          where you were,-—" 

          "Marry and go out where you were," said Doc.
 
          "The Stars are so close you won't need a Telescope." 

          "The Fish jump into your Arms. The Indians know Magick."

         "We'll go there. We'll live there."

         "We'll fish there, And you too."

. . . .those who know what happened to "this land of ours" do not need any
furtherance of despair knowing the ultimate fate of this much divided land.

The scene just before, Mason's final scene, is one of gathering darkness:

            "Whilst I'm of use," Mason says, "they shan't seek my 
           dissolution, not in the thick of this Dispute over the Bradley 
           Obs so-call'd, these being, many of them, my own.No one 
           wants to repeat what went on between Newton and Flamsteed. 
           Excepting perhaps one of Kabbalistick Turn, who believes 
           those Arrays of Numerals to be the magical Text that will 
           deliver him to Immortality. Or suspects that Bradley found 
           something, something as important as the Aberration, but 
           more ominous,-—something France may not have, or not 
           right away, and Jesuits must not learn of, ever,-—something 
           so useful and deadly, that rather than publish his suspicions, 
           or even reduce the data any further, Bradley simply left them 
           as an exercise for anyone strongly enough interested. And 
           what could that be? What Phantom Shape, implicit in the Figures?" 

           "Ah, you old Quizzer," Franklin tries to beam, Mason continuing to 
           regard him, not pleading, but as if it didn't matter much what 
           Franklin thinks. 

           " 'Tis a Construction," Mason weakly, "a great single Engine, the 
           size of a Continent. I have all the proofs you may require. Not all 
           the Connexions are made yet, that's why some of it is still invisible. 
           Day by day the Pioneers and Surveyors go on, more points are 
           being tied in, and soon becoming visible, as above, new Stars 
           are recorded and named and plac'd in Almanacks .... " 

           "You've found it, have ye? This certainly isn't that Curious Design 
           with the trifling Cost that you sent me along with your Letter." 

           "Sir, you have encounter'd Deists before, and know that our Bible 
           is Nature, wherein the Pentateuch, is the Sky. I have found there, 
           written ev'ry Night, in Astral Gematria, Messages of Great 
           Urgency to our Time, and to your Continent, Sir." 

           "Now to be your own as well, may an old Continental hope, Sir." 
           Mary looks in. "Well, young Mary," Mason's eyes elsewhere, 
           unclaimable, "it turn'd out to be simple after all. Didn't it." 

           "You're safe, Charlie," she whispers. "You're safe." She prays. 

It's about as upbeat as the last bars of the first movement of
Bruckner's Ninth.