LUDIC LOG

As hard as it is to believe, Thomas Pynchon -- who it would seem obvious is one of the very few great writers the United States, a country inimicable to literary greatness, has ever produced -- is still derided by a large number of literary critics.

Well, not real literary critics, mind you. Academics, mostly. And yet, and yet: after 40 years and 4 novels of an exceptional greatness; after being one of the only writers in all the world, let alone the US, to have the fortitude and skill to have picked up the gauntlet thrown down by James Joyce; after the publication of a novel that should have settled, once and for all, the question of whether or not he deserves a place in the pitifully understocked firmament of Great American Writers -- after all that, there are still doubters in every precinct.

Let's leave alone the legions of people who, knees jerking and hackles rising, reject Pynchon out of hand -- and not only Pynchon, but any number of other writers who try and make something new out of the poorly aging clay of storytelling -- because he's a postmodernist. This "debate" has gone on far too long, for such a one-sided debate in which Fear, in its shabby old disguise of Tradition, is the main participant. I will simply note that the accusation of academic masturbation is less than persuasive coming from critics who are themselves academic mandarins of a very ancient tradition, and one gains no glory from dressing up in finery that has long ago fallen to rags.

Better to move on to other charges commonly leveled against Pynchon from his quixotic detractors. First, one often hears that Pynchon is sophomoric, and that his books appeal mostly to callow youths that have not yet learned the fine art of discarding the new and exciting in favor of the staid, the old, the dead. Nonsense: sophomoric readers do not imply a sophomoric work. One rarely hears Aristotle called sophomoric despite his frequent appearance in Intro to Philosophy classes. Further, it's worth noting that when Pynchon first appeared on the scene, it was not the ever-derided immature collegians (who are perpetually hated by their professors, for reasons it's best not to speculate upon) who hailed him as a major talent: it was authentic and legitimate literary critics, not beholden to academic dogma and university politics and unafraid to state their opinions.

A collary to the "Pynchon is juvenile and immature" criticism, a favorite of those who enjoy patronizingly attacking the man without having to engage in the difficult business of having to seriously analyze his work, is the charge that he's the Eddie van Halen of literature: technically flashy but with no soul, no passion, no heart, no substance. This is also nonsense, a charge better leveled at the creative-writing-class sophomores his critics mistake him for than Thomas Pynchon himself. His works, while firecracker-sharp stylistically, bear the weight of greatness that are the hallmark of classic literature. He's unafraid to dwell on Big Themes, like the search for God, alienation from society, obedience and dissent, appearance vs. reality (a favorite of postmodernists, of course, and a thorn in the side of those who picked it as a Big Theme before they realized exactly how Big it was), and the meaning of happiness. He has a fantastic ear for dialogue and tone. He can set a scene and deliver a mood like no one since Proust. And if great literature stems from great character, then surely Pynchon is one of the elite: few creations of modern literature are the equal of Benny Profane, Oedipa Maas, and Tyrone Slothrop. These strengths are cited to bolster the reputations of all the Greats; why doesn't Pynchon qualify?

Other criticisms are frequently leveled at him, criticisms so shallow that it's hard to imagine where the come from, other than the instinct to pile on the wierd kid. His obsession with the technological is often cited as a fault, as if it's a fatal error to not pretend that the most important world-changing development of the last 500 years is off limits for writers. His razor-sharp humor is a cause of dismay to many; Great Writers, apparently, aren't allowed to be actually funny. And, of course, for the eternal foes of postmodernism, the song lyrics, poems, press clippings, and textual hiccups that appear in his works are ever a reason to shake one's head. (His notorious reclusiveness is often cited as "gimmick", as if it's his fault that he chooses to focus on writing and living rather than the expected callings of American writers, advertising and self-promotion.)

But the truth is this: Thomas Pynchon is a great writer, one of the greatest the United States has ever produced, and will be remembered as such by posterity. His works bear the universal resonance that is the hallmark of great literature; he is restlessly inventive, fiendishly clever, and never less than interesting; and, most importantly, he has taken up the challenge of Joyce to realize that the novel has changed, both the way it's read and the way it's written, and to act accordingly. He has brought the world into his books. It's too bad that many people have spent the last 30 years trying to kick it out.