words, words, words

Well, then. I'm afraid I can no longer smugly grin and say "Yes, I have an understanding of this novel, I'm doing well on my own." Because in our reading assignment for Thursday (consider this your warning), the novel goes spinning off the rails, flying without hesitation from a sort of amusing vagueness to a complete nonsensicality that sounds very pretty but defies any attempts at understanding. I don't know if I like the warning signs that are flashing. One of my complaints with po-mo writing is that I don't see intentional vagueness as a virtue unto itself. If done for a specific reason (Faulkner's "Sound and the Fury," for example), it works. But here, I don't see the point, other than so Cooler Than Thou Pynchon can make some statement about how cool and thoroughly experimental he's being. Really, what's the point? Or, in asking that, would I just cause a post-modernist to shake his head and laugh at my small-minded expectation that everything must have a point?