Now that we know a little too much about Salinger, will the real Thomas Pynchon please step forward.
It is time, Tom. I get it, the work is the message, the gift.
But you've had a lifetime of peering out your Venetian blinds making sure the coast is clear, or dodging the empty questions of so many late night talk shows. Tell us whether you write with a pen or pencil for how many hours per day, and what was your relationship with your mother. But I can't help but wonder whether it, attention, is really all so bad, and whether you're so much better being wherever being whomever you are. One Charlie Rose episode's too much for you? He seems pleasant and thoughtful enough. Or allow Paul Thomas Anderson to bring a camera to wherever the two of you met to work on your new movie. One Paris Review interview with pictures with someone you admire who knows your work better than you do.
Hi, I'm Thomas Pynchon, and I still use Old Spice.
During spring, does Pynchon not step out of his Manhattan abode on occasion to see the tulips? One would think he walks with, of all things, his lovely and powerful literary agent wife at least as far as the corner to hail a taxi, or sneak into a nearby diner for brunch. Why else live in Manhattan? Not one doorman, intern, cleaning lady, copy editor, plumber, celebrity wannabe or overly zealous reader has come forward with anything more than He was very charming at dinner and/or He wouldn't see me again if I said anything. But there must've been many, if he is a person, that knew quite well they'd never see him again anyway. You do the math: Over a lifetime, there's gotta be some lone parasite, or plain old regular folk, without the superhuman devotion to confidentiality ethics we've taken for granted that every last person that came his way possessed. I've had close friends swear up and down regarding something private who ended up slipping. It is human, sadly. Not one paparazzi took a detour from the usual suspects to capture an image of this hidden man. Some stalker. Either he's the Einstein of the celebrity hermit world, or something fishy is up.
Does this mean Thomas Pynchon isn't human? Who knows. I write novels, so my mind can imagine him being someone's creation. His wife's, or her college roommate or some prankster and gifted con man she met in the Village way back when.
I'm not one for conspiracy theories, even though many end up being the truth of history. What better a creation for some disgruntled, ultimately apolitical CIA ivy-leaguers with English degrees than to invent such a soul, we ask. Keep the academics busy arguing over minutiae, as we churn out mind-bending stories every decade or so that convince the world that Yes, we do in fact have a culture over here, despite so much evidence to the contrary. They did it with Jackson Pollock and others, so there's precedence. Give this same public who keeps asking Who is that Masked Man something to talk about. Make a literary God and let's see how long the faithful will keep worshiping his bibles.
Invoking the Psalms, show us some sign, won't you, please. I mean, you aren't that young, and might crave, somewhere deep in you, to live out this chapter. But the truth is, Mr. Pynchon, you don't have to do anything, now that you've given the world something great that it wouldn't have had without you. We don't need to know about your testicles, too.