Does the Broken Estate Have a Heart?

[Campbel Morgan]

This passage, provided by John,  fails to convince this reader.

A Pynchon reader can not help but recognize that this is a recycled
relationship (Zoyd and Prairie of Vineland) and that the beautiful
descriptive language and imagery here, like the fantastic description,
from Prairie's POV, of the Trees, Trees, Trees ... in Vineland, while
stunning and loaded with emotion and grace, doesn't transplant a real
heart into a not real character. The unholy triangle of Praire and
Zoyd and Frenesi is an allegorical cartoon baloon construct deflated
by the manic style; as characters, they collapse under the weight of
Pynchon's manic brilliance (overwritten, overdetermined, whatever...)
and, this is not an error on Pynchon's part, a weakness, it's
intentional, be design.

Mona is Really Just a Lovely work of Art.

I do agree with nearly everything Robert wrote about M&D. A
masterwork. The buddy system works majick in that work; the structure,
more cohesive, digressions that don't walk off cliffs and sentences
and paragrapsh that don't break jaws, burst out of mouthpeices and fly
off like subjunctive and subordiante kites cut loose in a windstorm.

"Planted rows went turning past like giant spokes one by one as they
ranged the roads. The skies were interrupted by dark gray storm clouds
with a flow like molten stone, swept and liquid, and light that found
its way through them was lost in the dark fields but gathered shining
along the pale road, so that sometimes all you could see was the road,
and the horizon it ran to. Sometimes she was overwhelmed by the green
life passing in such high turbulence, too much to see, all clamoring to
have its way. Leaves sawtooth, spade-shaped, long and thin,
blunt-fingered, snowy and veined, oiled and dusty with the day-flowers
in bells and clusters, purple and white or yellow as butter, star-shaped
ferns in the wet and dark places, millions of green veilings before the
bridal secrets in the moss and under the deadfalls, went on by the
wheels creaking and struck by rocks in the ruts, sparks visible only in
what shadow it might pass over, a busy development of small trailside
shapes tumbling in what had to be deliberately arranged precision, herbs
the wild-crafters knew the names and market prices of and which the
silent women up in the foothills, counterparts whom they most often
never got even to meet, knew the magic uses for. They lived for
different futures, but they were each other's unrecognised halves, and
what fascination between then did come to pass was lit up, beyond
question, with grace."