Status Updates From Die Enden der Parabel

Page long description of Slothrop’s desk, feels so good to be reading Pynchon again I feel like I’m being drugged while reading this. Not as lost as I thought I might be tho

--no counterfeit baby, no announcement of the Kingdom, not even a try at warming or lighting this terrible night, only, damn us, our scruffy obligatory little cry, our maximum reach outward—praise be to God—for you to take back to your war-address, your war-identity, across the snow’s footprints and tire tracks finally to the path you must create by yourself, alone in the dark.

"O little Jesus, for thee I long alway"
(Translated)

There must have been evensong here long before the news of Christ.

Lower in the sky the flying bombs are out too, roaring like the Adversary, seeking whom they may devour. It’s a long walk home tonight.

how many hands each frozen around a Miraculous Medal, lucky piece of wom bone, half-dollar with the grinning sun peering up under Liberty’s wispy gown, clutching, dumb, when the 88 fell—what do you think, it’s a children’s story? There aren’t any.

Come then. Leave your war awhile, paper or iron war, petrol or flesh, come in with your love, your fear of losing, your exhaustion with it. All day it’s been at you, coercing, jiving, claiming your belief in so much that isn’t true. Is that who you are, that vaguely criminal face on your ID card, its soul snatched by the government camera as the guillotine shutter fell--

The power companies speak of loads, war-drains so vast the clocks will slow again unless this nighttime march is stolen but the loads expected daily do not occur, and the Grid runs inching ever faster, and the old faces turn to the clock faces, thinking plot, and the numbers go whirling toward the Nativity, a violence, a nova of heart that will turn us all, change us forever to the very forgotten roots of who we are.

Their electric clocks run fast, even Big Ben will be fast now until the new spring’s run in, all fast, and no one else seems to understand or to care. The War needs electricity.

To believe is not a price they pay—it happens all by itself. He is the New Baby. On the magic night before, the animals will talk, and the sky will be milk.

finding techniques of balancing the sack with one hand whilst the other goes playing “dead”—cioé,

If these Eyeties sing now and then you can bet it’s not “Giovinezza” but something probably from Rigoletto or La Bohéme—indeed the Post Office is considering issuing a list of Nonacceptable Songs, with ukulele chords as an aid to ready identification.