Gravity's Rainbow (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition)
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Winner of the 1973 National Book Award, Gravity's Rainbow is a postmodern epic, a work as exhaustively significant to the second half of the twentieth century as Joyce's Ulysses was to the first. Its sprawling, encyclopedic narrative and penetrating analysis of the impact of technology on society make it an intellectual tour de force.
This Penguin Classics deluxe edition features a specially designed cover by Frank Miller along with french claps and deckle-edged paper.
For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,700 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.
nobles in big white Frederick the Great hairdos, ladies with smooth faces and oval eyes in low-necked dresses whose yards of silk spill out into the dust and wingbeats of the dark rooms. There is dove shit all over the place. By contrast, Zwitter’s laboratory upstairs is brightly lit, well-ordered, crammed with blown glass, work tables, lights of many colors, speckled boxes, green folders—a mad Nazi scientist lab! Plas-ticman, where are you? There’s only Zwitter: stocky, dark hair parted
each beat, like a bandleader, “who, sent, the Dream?” It is never clear how rhetorical any of Jamf’s questions are. “Who sent this new serpent to our ruinous garden, already too fouled, too crowded to qualify as any locus of innocence—unless innocence be our age’s neutral, our silent passing into the machineries of indifference— something that Kekulé’s Serpent had come to—not to destroy, but to define to us the loss of. . . we had been given certain molecules, certain combinations and not
narrower your sense of Now, the more tenuous you are. It may get to where you’re having trouble remembering what you were doing five minutes ago, or even—as Slothrop now—what you’re doing here, at the base of this colossal curved embankment. . . . “Uh,” he turns slackmouth to Närrisch, “what are we . . .” “What are we what?” “What?” “You said, ‘What are we . . . ,’ then you stopped.” “Oh. Gee, that was a funny thing to say.” As for Närrisch, he’s too locked in to business. He has never
faceting or screening, good-natured coffee-urn grousing, well golly, here goes another day, howdy Marie, where you ladies hiding the drawings on the SG-1 . . . what do you mean Field Service has them . . . again? doesn’t Engineering Design have any rights, it’s like watching your child run away, to see a piece of equipment get set out to the Field (Der Veld). That it is. A broken heart, a mother’s prayer. . . . Slowly, the voices of the Lübeck Hitler Youth Glee Club fade in behind (nowadays
sense a peculiar structure that no one admitted to—that extended far beyond Turl Street, past Cornmarket into covenants, procuring, accounts due . . . one never knew who it would be, or when, or how they’d try to collect it. . . but I thought it only idle, only at the fringes of what I was really up there for, you know. . . .” “Sure. In that America, it’s the first thing they tell you. Harvard’s there for other reasons. The ‘educating’ part of it is just sort of a front.” “We’re so very