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El mineral transparente llamado espato de Islandia posee la curiosa propiedad óptica de la doble refracción: duplica en paralelo la imagen del objeto que se mira a través de él. Si, desde cierta altura, se contemplara el planeta por una lámina de ese espato, la realidad no se distorsionaría, pero cabe sospechar que la imagen duplicada no sería exactamente la esperada. En un juego semejante se embarca Thomas Pynchon en Contraluz al recrear un mundo en descomposición, el que va de la Exposición Universal de Chicago de 1893 a los años inmediatamente posteriores a la primera guerra mundial. Cientos de tramas entrelazadas trasladan al lector de los conflictos laborales en las minas de Colorado al Nueva York finisecular, para pasearlo después por lugares tan dispares como Londres y Gotinga, Venecia y Viena, los Balcanes, Siberia durante el misterioso incidente de Tunguska, el México revolucionario, el París de posguerra o el Hollywood de la era del cine mudo. Por ese laberinto de palacios y burdeles, callejones insalubres y desiertos gélidos se mueve una abigarrada

galería de personajes: anarquistas, aeronautas, jugadores, matemáticos, canes parlantes, científicos locos, chamanes, videntes y magos, espías, detectives y pistoleros a sueldo, que se codean con personajes reales como Bela Lugosi o Groucho Marx.

El hilo conductor de muchas de las historias es la peculiar familia Traverse: Webb Traverse, minero sindicalista, muere a manos de los esbirros del magnate Scarsdale Vibe, y altera las vidas de sus cuatro hijos. Cáustico, misterioso y enciclopédico como siempre, pero más legible que nunca, Pynchon parodia todos los géneros literarios, en un festín narrativo en el que no falta nada: conspiraciones, prácticas sexuales peculiares, cancioncillas, mapas secretos, venganzas, saltos en el tiempo y el espacio… Y pese al vértigo de este frenético discurrir hacia el abismo, resulta un libro extrañamente luminoso, que se aferra a la dolorosa

certidumbre de la cita que lo encabeza: «Siempr e esde noche, si no, no necesitaríamos luz».

Thomas Pynchon brings us to New York in the early days of the internet

It is 2001 in New York City, in the lull between the collapse of the dot-com boom and the terrible events of September 11th. Silicon Alley is a ghost town, Web 1.0 is having adolescent angst, Google has yet to IPO, Microsoft is still considered the Evil Empire. There may not be quite as much money around as there was at the height of the tech bubble, but there’s no shortage of swindlers looking to grab a piece of what’s left.

Maxine Tarnow is running a nice little fraud investigation business on the Upper West Side, chasing down different kinds of small-scale con artists. She used to be legally certified but her license got pulled a while back, which has actually turned out to be a blessing because now she can follow her own code of ethics—carry a Beretta, do business with sleazebags, hack into people’s bank accounts—without having too much guilt about any of it. Otherwise, just your average working mom—two boys in elementary school, an off-and-on situation with her sort of semi-ex-husband Horst, life as normal as it ever gets in the neighborhood—till Maxine starts looking into the finances of a computer-security firm and its billionaire geek CEO, whereupon things begin rapidly to jam onto the subway and head downtown. She soon finds herself mixed up with a drug runner in an art deco motorboat, a professional nose obsessed with Hitler’s aftershave, a neoliberal enforcer with footwear issues, plus elements of the Russian mob and various bloggers, hackers, code monkeys, and entrepreneurs, some of whom begin to show up mysteriously dead. Foul play, of course.

With occasional excursions into the DeepWeb and out to Long Island, Thomas Pynchon, channeling his inner Jewish mother, brings us a historical romance of New York in the early days of the internet, not that distant in calendar time but galactically remote from where we’ve journeyed to since.

Will perpetrators be revealed, forget about brought to justice? Will Maxine have to take the handgun out of her purse? Will she and Horst get back together? Will Jerry Seinfeld make an unscheduled guest appearance? Will accounts secular and karmic be brought into balance?

Hey. Who wants to know?

"Vente à la criée du lot 49" est le deuxième roman de Thomas Pynchon. Une jeune femme nommée Œdipa Mass y apprend qu'elle a été choisie comme exécutrice testamentaire d'un de ses anciens amants, un magnat de l'immobilier dont le legs réside en une mystérieuse collection de timbres. Mais plusieurs éléments, comme la découverte d'un service postal alternatif, ainsi qu'une image de cor bouché dans les toilettes du Scope, la plongent dans une vaste enquête sur la possibilité d'un réseau de dissidents dans la communauté de San Narcisso. Existant depuis plus de 200 ans, le réseau s'appellerait W.A.S.T.E., soit "We await silent Trystero's Empire", formule invoquée par "The Courier's Tragedy" de Richard Wharfinger, un incunable du corpus théâtral jacobéen concernant un héros déshérité qui aurait tenté à plusieurs reprises d'assassiner le maître des postes du prince d'Orange pour contrôler la communication entre les royaumes.

Short, straightforward in narrative, and relatively linear in plot, is considered by many to be Pynchon's most accessible novel, and is therefore the one most commonly read, whether to fulfill the syllabus of a literature course or simply for pleasure. Nevertheless, it remains an enigmatic book that has been analyzed, discussed, and dissected almost as much as Even thirty years after publication it is still considered quite open to interpretation: some critics feel that it is ultimately meaningless and impossible to interpret, while others have found it to be rather cohesive, and even possessed by a set of ethical directives. Others, as J. Grant remarks, perhaps mindful of Oedipa's notion that "excluded middles" are "bad shit," have worked to find a functional interface between book and reader. All, however, agree that it is a vital work and a postmodern classic.