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[Paul Mackin]

----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Mark Kohut" <markekohut at yahoo.com>
To: "Robin Landseadel" <robinlandseadel at comcast.net>
Cc: "pynchon -l" <pynchon-l at waste.org>
Sent: Friday, April 17, 2009 2:54 PM
Subject: Re: Home


>
> Prairie goes in and out of that lucid waking dreaming state in a heavenly 
> meadow recreated with Pynchon's wonderful lyricism embodying
> his pantheism?, his panentheism?, his simple paganism?---as above, so 
> below---and
> with Desmond licking her she is now awake and Desmond is the image of HIS 
> grandmother Chloe (as if reincarnated?)............????
>
> Home is where what is left of nature is.

I like that.

Where postmodernity has not yet taking hold.

P

 Home in Vineland is in the land of vines.....
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> ----- Original Message ----
> From: Robin Landseadel <robinlandseadel at comcast.net>
> To: pynchon-l at waste.org
> Sent: Friday, April 17, 2009 12:35:34 PM
> Subject: Re: Home
>
> On Apr 17, 2009, at 9:08 AM, Kai Frederik Lorentzen wrote:
>
>>
>> Robin schrieb:
>>
>>> What really matters, in this family drama, is that somehow, we find
>>> our way home. We all know where home is, but we all know that "home"
>>> is slipping away.
>>
>>
>> Makes me think of the very end of Ernst Blochs magnum opus "Das Prinzip
>> Hoffnung" (The principle of Hope), where Home ("Heimat") gets defined as
>> "etwas, das allen in die Kindheit scheint und worin noch niemand war"
>> (p. 1628). Something that shines through everybody's childhood and where
>> nobody has been yet ...
>>
>> Kai
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> Except—maybe—Desmond:
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> . . .suspecting already that he was no longer available, that the
> midnight summoning would go safely unanswered, even if she
> couldn't let go. The small meadow shimmered in the starlight,
> and her promises grew more extravagant as she drifted into the
> lucid thin layer of waking dreaming, her flirting more obvious —
> then she'd wake, alert to some step in the woods, some brief
> bloom of light in the sky, back and forth for a while between
> Brock fantasies and the silent darkened silver images all
> around her, before settling down into sleep, 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.
>
> . . . it's such a fairy-tale ending, save little details like the R.I.C.O. 
> destruction of the Wheeler Family home. And yet they are surrounded by a 
> supportive [and huge] family. And yet, and yet.
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> Talk to me of Mendocino:
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> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FPopA5Y0XcE
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