The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon Review

I’ve been curious about Thomas Pynchon for some time now. I know his books are held in the highest esteem, they’ve won the biggest awards, and he’s a famously reclusive writer, having not been seen in public for decades now. And I was also informed that his most accessible book is also his shortest: The Crying of Lot 49.

So a while back I attempted reading it - and nearly short-circuited my brain! I read about a dozen pages and gave up, utterly flummoxed by what I’d read, only knowing it was baaaaad. However! I decided to give Pynchon a fair shake and to attempt this book again, this time by reading 4 pages of it per day. It’s only 142 pages, so it wouldn’t take me that long. And this method worked - I finally finished the damn thing and me brain is still more or less in one piece - but I’m none the wiser as to what I read or why in particular Pynchon is revered as a literary master. The Crying of Lot 49 is awful!

The main character is Oedipa Maas (all the characters have stupid names like this: Ghengis Cohen, Peter Pinguid, Mike Fallopian - this must be the “humour” I’m told Pynchon’s books possess?) who is left something in the will of her wealthy friend. She has to learn how to become an executor of the will or something and this leads her on a bizarre and rambling quest where she finds out there’s a secret underground postal service and a lost Elizabethan play. Don’t ask me why these things feature so prominently or what they have to do with anything because I don’t know!

Honestly, Pynchon is such a bad storyteller that you could open up this book and select any random sentence and your understanding of the story would be the same as someone who had read the book up to that point. The characters are just names, the story is only ever vague, the themes (if the book has any) are murky, and the prose is so awkward and flat as to leave no impression or connection to the reader. This is the easiest book to put down because you never know what the hell you’re reading so you don’t care - and this is the state of play for the entire thing. It doesn’t get better!

The title is a reference to auctioneers (their blather is called “crying”) and lot 49 is an auction for - something. I have no idea. Have I mentioned how little I knew was going on in this mess of a novel?

I’m glad I can say I’ve read a Thomas Pynchon novel but I know for sure now that I will never read another one again - he is most certainly not a writer for me. The Crying of Lot 49 was nothing more than an exercise in patience, like waiting for a bore to finish their tedious prattling before they stagger away. You would probably have an easier (and more entertaining) time reading fish entrails than Pynchon’s prose.