Finished Styron -- and Now?

A minor accomplishment (or a major one, when trying to complete it along with job hunting, tending to children, etc.) today when I completed my reading of Sophie's Choice. I hadn't read it before and hadn't seen the movie (although it's now on my Netflix list), and A. had repeatedly asked me during the course of my reading whether I wanted to know what "the choice" was (naturally, I refused, not wanting to have the crucial part of the story given away). Needless to say, I was extremely surprised when I got to that point in the novel, and I can only imagine how difficult it was for Sophie to make the decision which she did.

Not only was it a great read, but it was also a great introduction to William Styron -- another of the "new" authors that I've turned to lately, along with John Irving, John Updike, and Thomas Pynchon. If you haven't read it -- and you have the time -- give it a read.

Now, what do I read next?

A Reclusive Birthday

Thomas Pynchon hits the big 7-0 today. I'm hoping that he gets out and celebrates this noteworthy point in his life, but even if he does we wouldn't know it -- no one knows what he looks like; in fact, a photograph of him hasn't been published in over 40 years.

Short of that, however, and in honor of his birthday, I've posted this clip from "The Simpsons." It's Pynchon's voice, but that's all we know.



An earlier appearance had Pynchon standing on the street inviting folks to stop and have their picture made with a reclusive author. Video isn't available, but this picture -- for those who know how reclusive this guy really is -- is good for some chuckles (sound clip was available at one point, and I'm trying to find again).


Summary of this first episode, written by Erik Ketzan and posted at TheModernWord.com: After Marge finishes her novel back at home, she finds a publisher who decides that it needs some glowing reviews by famous novelists. Enter Thomas Pynchon, cartoon character. Wearing a paper bag over his head (Pynchon may have broken his silence, but we still have to guess what he looks like now by mentally ageing his high school portrait fifty years), he stands next to a flashing sign, reading, “Thomas Pynchon’s house,” pointing. . . at his house, presumably. On the phone with Marge’s publisher, he says “Here’s your quote. Thomas Pynchon loved this book. Almost as much as he loves cameras,” a reference indicating, with sly sarcasm, that Marge’s book, well, sucks. He hangs up the phone, dons a waffle-board sign reading “Thomas Pynchon” (with a big red arrow pointing up at his head), and yells at passing motorists, “Hey, over here, have your picture taken with a reclusive author! Today only, we’ll throw in a free autograph. But, wait! There’s more!”