53
materiality of his encoding. When his tyrannies are exposed, he effectively ceases to
exist, and he is absorbed by the land he sought to dominate. If, as Severs suggests, one of
the novel’s key images is a footprint, “a single homogeneous one formed by many
successive generations of tramping, which we can read as Pynchon’s cynical image for
what centuries of American individualists have done in their communions with nature
and their supposed trailblazing” (224), then Vond’s death may be read as a sort of
deliberate reversal, a counter-footprint deep as any made by American trailblazing
ideology, as the fascist agent who refused to touch his boot to the soil is swallowed into
its depths.
Switchback
While there is narrative satisfaction in Vond’s deconstruction within the non-utilitarian,
unroutine and unroutinizable Vineland County landscapes, the novel’s spatial economy
asserts that these landscapes are not straightforwardly anti-oppressive. The Northern
California bioregion offers not only refuge from the abstract spaces of technocratic
urbanity, but also, at times, secrecy for the most covert and brutal control systems. The
area’s “wet and secluded valley[s]” (VL 249) conceal government bases, sites of “fascist
architecture” (287) whose purposes shift seamlessly to accommodate the fresh and
private horrors of each new administration: “an old Air Force fog-dispersal experiment”
(251); “a holding area able to house up to half a million urban evacuees in the event of,
well, say, some urban evacuation” (251); “prison camps […] like feedlots where we’d all
become official nonhuman livestock” (264). To draw out the spatial mechanics required
for the covert offshoots of the official story being told by the military bases that populate
Southern California so unabashedly—“the most powerful assemblage of weapon-making
54
expertise ever grounded into any one place” (224-225), as Soja asserts—Pynchon
introduces the “National Security Reservation,” to which Vond’s people transport the
rebels of PR
3
after its fall. Following a rumor that Frenesi has been kidnapped and
brought to this reservation, DL and the other members of fps24 come upon “the old
FEER freeway” (250) in a state of decay, “defects here and there in its camouflage, gray
columns and guardrails, ruins from Camelot” (250). These markers of the corruption and
failure of even the most romantically recalled administrations suggest, not that the
impulses and anxieties governing FEER’s construction have diminished, but rather that
they have become something slightly more transparent, not the grand schemes of a world
power, but the petty plots of a nation-state at war with itself. In this sense, the
Reservation’s concealed location becomes a key to its decoding, the very fact of its
concealment signifying the weaknesses and internal contradictions of what, in more
public space, seems, as Soja suggests, insurmountably powerful.
In his reading of the novel’s contested spaces, Bumas suggests that the National
Security Reservation is both utopian “in the literal sense of having no location” and
dystopian, in that “the horror of it is that it does indeed exist” (159), and this points to the
tension surrounding the Reservation’s (un)official (non)existence. Within Pynchon’s
layered references to the different uses to which the Reservation is put throughout the
novel’s histories, there is the intimation of a kind of impregnable discursive stability.
Whatever administration is making use of the site, it is nonetheless an infrastructural
arrangement into which oppression has been encoded architecturally, and so in its very
occupation of space, it instantiates and defends the same kind of history as that of the
“ancient freeway system” (VL 89). As DL wonders when she enters the “subterranean
55
complex” beneath the barracks, “would the magnitude of the fear that had found
expression in this built space allow them to use it in ways just as uncontrolled and
insane…thinking it authorized them somehow?” (255). The complex is both nuclear
bunker and interrogation site, an “escape to refuge deep in the earth” (255) and “deep
privacy for whatever those in command might wish to do to people they brought down
here” (255). As Bumas correctly interprets, the horror here is of the existence of such a
space. Its authorization and use cover a range of purposes, but they are all encompassed
within the rubric of “the magnitude of fear” that DL identifies as having “found
expression in this built space” (255). As long as the infrastructure of oppression persists,
the novel’s framework of spatio-material narrative encoding suggests, there is no
possibility of moving on from the ideological systems that it instantiates.
Pynchon sets the Reservation at the end of a concealed road: “The little-known and
only confidentially traveled FEER, or Federal Emergency Evacuation Route, which
followed the crestline of the Coast Range north in a tenebrous cool light, beneath
camouflage netting and weatherproof plastic sheet. It was a dim tunnel that went for
hundreds of miles” (249). Noticeably linear, noticeably as blind as it is concealed, FEER
is the novel’s clearest articulation of the freeway system’s ideological and narrative
hegemony, to which Pynchon opposes switchback narrativity. “Conceived in the early
sixties as a disposable freeway that would only be used, to full capacity, once” (249),
Pynchon writes, the highway is a product of “the apocalyptic grandeur of Kennedy-era
strategic ‘thinking’” (249), an escape route should some destructive force ever come to
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