dispossessed of San Francisco; enters her therapist’s office to talk him out of his psychotic
shooting rampage (the dangerous enclosure known in the study of traditional quest romances
as “Chapel Perilous”); involves herself in what may be a centuries-old postal conspiracy.
5) The real reason to go: did I mention that her name is Oedipa? Oedipa Maas, actually. She’s
named for the great tragic character from Sophocles’ drama Oedipus the King (ca. 425 b.c.),
whose real calamity is that he doesn’t know who he is. In Pynchon’s novel the heroine’s
resources, really her crutches—and they all happen to be male—are stripped away one by
one, shown to be false or unreliable, until she reaches the point where she either must break
down, reduced to a little fetal ball, or stand straight and rely on herself. And to do that, she
first must find the self on whom she can rely. Which she does, after considerable struggle.
Gives up on men, Tupperware parties, easy answers. Plunges ahead into the great mystery of
the ending. Acquires, dare we say, self-knowledge? Of course we dare.
Still . . .
You don’t believe me. Then why does the stated goal fade away? We hear less and less about the
will and the estate as the story goes on, and even the surrogate goal, the mystery of the postal
conspiracy, remains unresolved. At the end of the novel, she’s about to witness an auction of some
rare forged stamps, and the answer to the mystery may or may not appear during the auction. We
doubt it, though, given what’s gone before. Mostly, we don’t even care. Now we know, as she does,
that she can carry on, that discovering that men can’t be counted on doesn’t mean the world ends, that
she’s a whole person.
So there, in fifty words or more, is why professors of literature typically think The Crying of Lot
49 is a terrific little book. It does look a bit weird at first glance, experimental and superhip (for
1965), but once you get the hang of it, you see that it follows the conventions of a quest tale. So does
Huck Finn. The Lord of the Rings. North by Northwest. Star Wars . And most other stories of
someone going somewhere and doing something, especially if the going and the doing wasn’t his idea
in the first place.
A word of warning: if I sometimes speak here and in the chapters to come as if a certain statement
is always true, a certain condition always obtains, I apologize. “Always” and “never” are not words
that have much meaning in literary study. For one thing, as soon as something seems to always be true,
some wise guy will come along and write something to prove that it’s not. If literature seems to be too
comfortably patriarchal, a novelist like the late Angela Carter or a poet like the contemporary Eavan
Boland will come along and upend things just to remind readers and writers of the falseness of our
established assumptions. If readers start to pigeonhole African-American writing, as was beginning to
happen in the 1960s and 1970s, a trickster like Ishmael Reed will come along who refuses to fit in
any pigeonhole we could create. Let’s consider journeys. Sometimes the quest fails or is not taken up
by the protagonist. Moreover, is every trip really a quest? It depends. Some days I just drive to work
—no adventures, no growth. I’m sure that the same is true in writing. Sometimes plot requires that a
writer get a character from home to work and back again. That said, when a character hits the road,
we should start to pay attention, just to see if, you know, something’s going on there.
Once you figure out quests, the rest is easy.
2
Nice to Eat with You:
Acts of Communion
P
ERHAPS YOU
’
VE HEARD THE ANECDOTE
about Sigmund Freud. One day one of his students, or
assistants, or some such hanger-on, was teasing him about his fondness for cigars, referring to their
obvious phallic nature. The great man responded simply that “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” I
don’t really care if the story is true or not. Actually, I think I prefer that it be apocryphal, since made-
up anecdotes have their own kind of truth. Still, it is equally true that just as cigars may be just cigars,
so sometimes they are not.
Same with meals in life and, of course, in literature. Sometimes a meal is just a meal, and eating
with others is simply eating with others. More often than not, though, it’s not. Once or twice a
semester at least, I will stop discussion of the story or play under consideration to intone (and I
invariably intone in bold): whenever people eat or drink together, it’s communion . For some
reasons, this is often met with a slightly scandalized look, communion having for many readers one
and only one meaning. While that meaning is very important, it is not the only one. Nor, for that
matter, does Christianity have a lock on the practice. Nearly every religion has some liturgical or
social ritual involving the coming together of the faithful to share sustenance. So I have to explain that
just as intercourse has meanings other than sexual, or at least did at one time, so not all communions
are holy. In fact, literary versions of communion can interpret the word in quite a variety of ways.
Here’s the thing to remember about communions of all kinds: in the real world, breaking bread
together is an act of sharing and peace, since if you’re breaking bread you’re not breaking heads. One
generally invites one’s friends to dinner, unless one is trying to get on the good side of enemies or
employers. We’re quite particular about those with whom we break bread. We may not, for instance,
accept a dinner invitation from someone we don’t care for. The act of taking food into our bodies is
so personal that we really only want to do it with people we’re very comfortable with. As with any
convention, this one can be violated. A tribal leader or Mafia don, say, may invite his enemies to
lunch and then have them killed. In most areas, however, such behavior is considered very bad form.
Generally, eating with another is a way of saying, “I’m with you, I like you, we form a community
together.” And that is a form of communion.
So too in literature. And in literature, there is another reason: writing a meal scene is so difficult,
and so inherently uninteresting, that there really needs to be some compelling reason to include one in
the story. And that reason has to do with how characters are getting along. Or not getting along. Come
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