The Crying Of Lot 49
by Thomas Pynchon
The Crying Of Lot 49, to me, shares a strong similarity to Some Like It Hot–the movie that stars Marilyn Monroe, Tony Curtis, and Jack Lemmon–in that both have attached to it a very implicit air of importance and groundbreaking-ness. Some Like It Hot is practically universally agreed upon by AFI and most film critics as being the greatest cinematic comedy ever written. Likewise, The Crying Of Lot 49 seems to be universally seen as one of the most important and greatest post-modern novels written. And I can agree with both of those opinions. But only to a point.
The problem with Lot 49 and Some Like It Hot is that they are great in the respective artistic spheres for their time. What I mean is this: I wholeheartedly understand that because Billy Wilder (the writer/director of the movie) influenced so many directors and writers it is easy to give him a huge nod with regards to his masterpiece Some Like It Hot. That said, can anyone–anyone at all–who is under the age of fifty really truly say with a straight face that Some Like It Hot is fundamentally and completely funnier than Airplane! (or even Major League)? “But they are two vastly different movies,” you’ll say if comparing Some Like It Hot to Airplane! and, yes, you are right. But comedies should be funny, no? How many times will someone laugh out loud to Some Like It Hot nowadays? Three times? Five? Would it even make it to ten?
What I am trying to say here is that the primary culprit working against a movie like Some Like It Hot is time. And the same goes for The Crying Of Lot 49.
If I were a teenager growing up in the ’60′s or ’70′s I am sure that the odds would be higher that I would like this book. (Likewise, to play my own devil’s advocate here, future generations of kids will no doubt wonder just how in the hell could my generation possibly find Pulp Fiction or The Corrections at all interesting.)
That said, The Crying Of Lot 49 is all about the quest for knowledge, conspiracy theories, and entropy. The book opens with Oedipa Maas finding out that she has been tasked with executing the will of her former lover and über-wealthy tycoon Pierce Inverarity. Along the way she has run-ins with Dr. Hilarius (a man who, amongst other things, gives LSD to housewives and later admits to having been a Nazi doctor at a concentration camp), a band called The Paranoids (a Beatles-type band), Metzger (a lawyer assigned to helping her execute Inverarity’s will, Oedipa also has an affair with him), John Nefastis (a scientist obssessed with Maxwell’s demon), and Genghis Cohen (a highly-regarded philatelist who helps Oedipa with Pierce’s stamp collection).
The bulk of the book is spent following Oedipa as she tries to track down what exactly the Trystero is. She stumbles upon this one night when she and Metzger are at The Scope, a club frequented by Yoyodyne employees, a huge defense contractor for the military in the area. While in the ladies’ room Oedipa notices the following written near a drawing of a muted horn:
“Interested in sophisticated fun? You, hubby, girl friends. The more the merrier. Get in touch with Kirby, through WASTE only, Box 7391, L.A.”
The book then follows a play-within-a-play format when Oedipa watches a play called The Courier’s Tragedy which puts into some context the history between Tristero and Thurn And Taxis, the latter being a real mail distribution company throughout Europe for many centuries.
I will not reveal anymore of the novel on the off chance anyone is interested in reading it. Ultimately, my biggest hangup with this novel is that it does not have a good flow to it–which is a big problem for me considering that this book is only 152 pages long. I think I understand the whole scope of the novel (I will certainly leave open the possibility that I am reading it wrong; the ending is anything but concrete) but I do not think Pynchon did a good job of arriving at the points that he arrived at. Or, maybe more specifically, I think this novel might be a little too dated. Maybe if I had not read either of David Foster Wallace novels I would think different of this one.
But mostly, like Some Like It Hot, this novel is something that I can respect but from an arm’s length. Who knows, maybe I will think differently of Lot 49 in ten years. But, for now, I think of it more as a relic; something that acted as a prelude and building block for many indescribably creative writers, but, ultimately, something that has been surpassed by its students.
