Is this allegorical criticism/appreciation of Pynchon's oeuvre, so to jokingly ask seriously.

[Mark Kohut]

In his review of Jim Crace’s fifth and arguably best novel, *Quarantine*(
*TLS*, June 13, 1997), Frank Kermode characterized Crace’s method as
“crystalline”, borrowing Iris Murdoch’s term for fiction that approaches
poetry in its internal cohesion, its adherence to pattern at the expense of
strict realism. Crace’s fictive landscapes are worlds unto themselves, full
of invented lore and flora, indeterminate in place and time,
unapologetically *made up*: inasmuch as they court contemporary resonance,
they do so fugitively, absolving themselves of the representative duties of
the social novel in favour of a hermetic, self-sustaining artifice that for
the most part relates only obliquely to observable reality. They are
fables, but fables without any obvious referent or moral: they are too good
for that.
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