Sublime

Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49.

One summer afternoon Mrs Oedipa Maas came home from a Tupper-ware party whose hostess had put perhaps too much kirsch in the fondue to find that she, Oedipa, had been named executor, or she supposed executrix, of the estate of one Pierce Inverarity, a California real estate mogul who had once lost two million dollars in his spare time but still had

Daytona Lorrain

Dwayne Z. (“Dizzy”) Cubitts,

Thomas Pynchon’s entire corpus may be said to consist of unresolved mysteries or, at least, unanswered questions (including his one explicit detective novel, the shambling Inherent Vice).

That Thomas had worked for the Chronicle since 1976 was easily established, as was the fact that he’d published three brief novels since that date. Out of a sense of delicacy Carleton never mentioned that he owned all three of these, and found them elegant and elliptical, couched in prose that had the cadence of the King James Bible, and concerned