OBA's next, & his poetry

[robinlandseadel at comcast.net]

          David Kipen
          Much as we all read longitude, etc., to get in fighting trim
           for m&d, what would you recommend for a '60s detective
           novel? 
 
          Also, my boss made me recite a poem from memory
          yesterday, so I memorized the first quatrain of pale fire.
          What oba should I have read instead? And sorry, but
          whence oba?

OBA'S my baby. I was thinking of Dickens---my sister is an 
English teacher and nuts about "Bleak House". So "Our 
Beloved Author" seemed like a an appropriate way of referring 
to Pynchon. There's only so many times you can use the same 
proper name before your eyeballs fall out of their sockets. As
we all know, TRP is crazy for acronyms. On top of that, OBA is:

          . . . .Oba (ruler), an African ruler or king
          Oba (goddess), in Yoruba mythology. . . .

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oba

. . . .among other things and is also a statue or fetish for those 
kings. I was thinking about how we relate to these inanimate 
objects—these books—as if we are talking about the man and 
of course the two are not the same thing. So it was all too 
perfect and the meme spread like a wildfire. 

If I were to pick out a passage of Pynchon that qualifies as a poem,
it would be "The Aqyn's Song" from Gravity's Rainbow:

                              THE AQYN'S SONG 

          I have come from the edge of the world. 
          I have come from the lungs of the wind, 
          With a thing I have seen so awesome 
          Even Dzambul could not sing it. 
          With a fear in my heart so sharp 
          It will cut through the strongest of metals. 

          In the ancient tales it is told 
          In a time that is older than Qorqyt, 
          Who took from the wood of Syrghaj 
          The first qobyz, and the first song
          It is told that a land far distant 
          Is the place of the Kirghiz Light. 

          In a place where words are unknown, 
          And eyes shine like candles at night, 
          And the face of God is a presence 
          Behind the mask of the sky—
          At the tall black rock in the desert, 
          In the time of the final days. 

          If the place were not so distant, 
          If words were known, and spoken, 
          Then the God might be a gold ikon, 
          Or a page in a paper book. 
          But It comes as the Kirghiz Light—
          There is no other way to know It. 

          The roar of Its voice is deafness, 
          The flash of Its light is blindness. 
          The floor of the desert rumbles, 
          And Its face cannot be borne. 
          And a man cannot be the same, 
          After seeing the Kirghiz Light. 

          For I tell you that I have seen It 
          In a place which is older than darkness, 
          Where even Allah cannot reach. 
          As you see, my beard is an ice-field, 
          I walk with a stick to support me, 
          But this light must change us to children. 

          And now I cannot walk far, 
          For a baby must learn to walk. 
          And my words are reaching your ears 
          As the meaningless sounds of a baby. 
          For the Kirghiz Light took my eyes, 
          Now I sense all Earth like a baby. 

          It is north, for a six-day ride, 
          Through the steep and death-gray canyons, 
          Then across the stony desert 
          To the mountain whose peak is a white dzurt. 
          And if you have passed without danger, 
          The place of the black rock will find you. 

          But if you would not be born, 
          Then stay with your warm red fire, 
          And stay with your wife, in your tent, 
          And the Light will never find you, 
          And your heart will grow heavy with age, 
          And your eyes will shut only to sleep. 

          GR, pgs P363/364

I've only started Ross Macdonalds' 'Sleeping Beauty',
but it looks very promising and very on point. It's 
publication date is 1973, but culturally speaking the 
'Sixties' really ended with Watergate.