GR translation: nacreous wrinkling

[Jamie McKittrick]

It sounds to me like the reflecting sheet that lighting technicians will
use to cast extra glare on faces. If you wobble said disc it will produce a
watery effect, emulating that particular shimmer of rain trickling down a
window, or standing by a pool. To the image linked by Monte, I will add two
more to illustrate:

http://b.vimeocdn.com/ts/100/090/100090992_640.jpg
http://i.ebayimg.com/t/New-110cm-43-2-in-1-Light-Mulit-Collapsible-disc-Reflector-set-for-Photography-/00/s/NTAyWDU4MQ==/z/M0AAAOxy~g5Rpyeb/$%28KGrHqJ,!qwFGTrO,Bf3BRpye,u4gw~~60_3.JPG



On Mon, Oct 21, 2013 at 12:17 PM, Monte Davis <montedavis at verizon.net>wrote:

> Nacre (‘mother of pearl’ is translucent in thin layers, but “wrinkles”
> light passing through it as streams and beads of water on glass do: at a
> microscopic scale by refraction, and at a macroscopic scale by variations
> in thickness. ****
>
> ** **
>
>
> http://us.123rf.com/400wm/400/400/prill/prill1110/prill111003285/10917206-full-frame-abstract-background-showing-the-multicolored-nacre-sideof-a-abalone-seashell.jpg
> ****
>
> * *
>
> *From:* owner-pynchon-l at waste.org [mailto:owner-pynchon-l at waste.org] *On
> Behalf Of *Mike Jing
> *Sent:* Monday, October 21, 2013 1:24 AM
> *To:* Pynchon Mailing List
> *Subject:* GR translation: nacreous wrinkling****
>
> ** **
>
> V471.5-20     Alone, kneeling on the painted steel, like her mother she
> knows how horror will come when the afternoon is brightest. And like
> Margherita, she has her worst visions in black and white. Each day she
> feels closer to the edge of something. She dreams often of the same
> journey: a passage by train, between two well-known cities, lit by that
> same nacreous wrinkling the films use to suggest rain out a window. In a
> Pullman, dictating her story. She feels able at last to tell of a personal
> horror, tell it clearly in a way others can share. That may keep it from
> taking her past the edge, into the silver-salt dark closing ponderably slow
> at her mind’s flank . . . when she was growing out her fringes, in dark
> rooms her own unaccustomed hair, beside her eyes, would loom like a
> presence. . . . In her ruined towers now the bells gong back and forth in
> the wind. Frayed ropes dangle or slap where her brown hoods no longer glide
> above the stone. Her wind keeps even dust away. It is old daylight: late,
> and cold. Horror in the brightest how of afternoon . . . sails on the sea
> too small and distant to matter . . . water too steel and cold. . . .****
>
> What is this "nacreous wrinkling" exactly?****
>
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