Growing up in a small Texas town, you quickly learn that if someone refers to a work of art - be it film, music, literature, whatever - as "just weird", that it's probably something you want to run right out and see. Sure, it's not always good, but probability is heavily in its favor.
Adam Kirsch's review of Thomas Pynchon's new book, Against the Day, in that great literary barometer, The New York Sun, starts off with a spit of chewing tobacco, a tilting of the neck, and the drawled words, "it's just weird."
His summation, though, is what clenches it for me:
In fact, however, his attitude towards violence is childishly sentimental, and ruthless in a way only possible to a writer whose imagination has never dwelt among actual human beings. Mr. Pynchon's heroes (the poor, the workers, Anarchists) assassinate and blow up his villains (mine owners, Pinkerton thugs, the bourgeoisie) with no more qualms than the Road Runner has about dropping an anvil on the Coyote. In the novel as in the cartoon, good and evil are unproblematic, death is unreal, and sheer activity takes the place of human motive. The silliness of "Against the Day" about the very subjects where we are most urgently in quest of wisdom proves that, whatever he once was, Thomas Pynchon is no longer the novelist we need.
I'll take two, please...