Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon

 

For my sins, I guess--I dunno what the sins are or were or will be, I hope they're worth it. Pynchon doesn't write: He bloviates, he blathers, he sometimes uses erudition as a barrier to communication, he writes about sex with the enthusiasm and vocabulary and class of the average seventh grader; mercifully, he eventually stops--there isn't anything like a point or a climax or anything like that, he just stops. There is nothing here worth reading, especially not anything like slogging through 775-ish pages of puerile, at best borderline-unreadable slodge.