GR translation: will it still go on emanating its hooded cold

[Markekohut]

Hypergolic of course . Auto-correct is a narrow algorithm


Sent from my iPad

On Nov 18, 2012, at 10:14 AM, Markekohut <markekohut at yahoo.com> wrote:

> another resonance to hooded that works, in that rich meaningful " type of ambiguity" is
> that re eyes say, it means half-closed....fitting with the earlier characterization of the the diminishing of winter, March in like a lamb, fewer sweaters.....winter as maybe half-finished.
> 
> I'll bet TRP did like the word "hyperbolic"  but do you think he knew when writing GR--was it known then, do we know?--- the A4/V2 did not use hyperbolic propellants? 
> 
> Sent from my iPad
> 
> On Nov 18, 2012, at 5:33 AM, "Monte Davis" <montedavis at verizon.net> wrote:
> 
>> Primary: as if the cold itself were dressed for winter. Secondary: hoods are associated with monks, Black Riders, mysterious and sinister people who don’t want to be identified – like the denizens of the White Visitation.
>>  
>> By the way, this use of “hypergolic” always struck me as odd: it describes chemicals that ignite spontaneously when combined, needing no spark or flame to start the reaction. There were tests of hypergolic propellants at Peenemunde, but (1) the A4/V-2 didn’t use them, and (2) the “set the water on fire” defense scheme against German invasion wasn’t hypergolic: once the oil coated the water, it would have needed a flare or other ignition source to burn.
>>  
>> Maybe he just liked the sound of the word.       
>>  
>> From: owner-pynchon-l at waste.org [mailto:owner-pynchon-l at waste.org] On Behalf Of Mike Jing
>> Sent: Sunday, November 18, 2012 1:35 AM
>> To: Pynchon Mailing List
>> Subject: GR translation: will it still go on emanating its hooded cold
>>  
>> P240.4-25   At “The White Visitation,” days along the chalk piece of seacoast now are fine and clear. The office girls are bundling into fewer sweaters, and breasts peaking through into visibility again. March has come in like a lamb. Lloyd George is dying. Stray visitors are observed now along the still-forbidden beach, sitting among obsolescent networks of steel rod and cable, trousers rolled to the knee or hair unsnooded, chilly gray toes stirring the shingle. Just offshore, underwater, run miles of secret piping, oil ready at a valve-twist to be released and roast German invaders who belong back in dreams already old . . . fuel waiting hypergolic ignition that will not come unless now as some junior-bureaucratic rag or May uprising of the spirit, to Bavarian tunesmith Carl Orff’s lively
>>                  O, O, O,
>>                  To-tus flore-o!
>>                  lam amore virginali
>>                  Totus ardeo . . .
>> all this fortress coast alight, Portsmouth to Dungeness, blazing for the love of spring. Plots to this effect hatch daily among the livelier heads at “The White Visitation”—the winter of dogs, of black snowfalls of issueless words, is ending. Soon it will be behind us. But once there, behind us—will it still go on emanating its hooded cold, however the fires burn at sea? 
>> 
>> Why is the cold "hooded"?
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