our strange cynicism about truth as a possibility has permitted us to accept all manner of bullshit

In short, our gentleman became so caught up in reading that he spent his nights reading from dusk till dawn and his days reading from sunrise to sunset, and so with too little sleep and too much reading his brains dried up, causing him to lose his mind.

Only poetry or madness could do justice to the noises...

Yet is Dixon certain, as certain as the lightness he feels now, lightness premonitory of Flying, that far worse happen’d here, to these poor People, as the blood flew and the Children cried, - that at the end no one understood what they said as they died.

Written By Thomas Pynchon

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