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I confirm what millions of people already know. Pynchon can write well. Damn well. Vineland is a tour de force, a splintered psychedelic romp. Vonnegut meets Joyce meets Tarantino.

In an April 1964 letter to his agent, Candida Donadio, Pynchon wrote that he was facing a creative crisis, with four novels in progress, announcing: “If they come out on paper anything like they are inside my head then it will be the literary event of the millennium.” (Gussow 1998)

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