“It was one in the morning, a wind had risen and something curious too had happened; as if everyone in the city, simultaneously, had become sick of news of any kind; for thousands of newspaper pages blew through the small park on the way crosstown, blundered like pale bats against the trees, tangled themselves around the feet of Rooney and Rachel, and of a bum sleeping across the way. Millions of unread and useless words had come to a kind of life in Sheridan Square; while the two on the bench wove cross-talk of their own, oblivious, among them.”

Thomas Pynchon, V.

"We can justify any apologia simply by calling life a successive rejection of personalities. No apologia is any more than a romance - half a fiction - in which all the successive identities taken on and rejected by the writer as a function of linear time are treated as separate characters. The writing itself even constitutes another rejection, another "character" added to the past. So we do sell our souls: paying them away to history in little installments. It isn’t so much to pay for eyes clear enough to see past the fiction of continuity, the fiction of cause and effect, the fiction of a humanized history endowed with "reason.""

Thomas Pynchon - V., p. 335

The Ballad of Roony Winsome

Born in Durham in ‘23,
By a pappy who was absentee,
Was took to a lynching at the neighborhood tree,
Whooped him a nigger when he was only three.

Roony, Roony Winsome, king of the decky-dance.

Pretty soon he started to grow,
Everyone knew he’d be a loving beau,
Cause down by the tracks he would frequently go
To change his luck at a dollar a throw.

Well he hit Winston-Salem with a rebel yell,
Found his self a pretty Southron belle
Was doing fine till her pappy raised hell
When he noticed her belly was beginning to swell.

Luckily the war up and came along,
He joined the army feeling brave and strong,
His patriotism didn’t last for long,
They put him in a foxhole where he didn’t belong.

He worked him a hustle with his first C.O.,
Got transferred back to a PIO,
Sat out the war in a fancy chateau,
Egging on the troops toward Tokyo.

When the war was over, his fighting done,
He hung up his khakis and his Garand gun
Came along to Noo York to have some fun,
But couldn’t find a job till ‘51.

Started writing copy for MCA
It wasn’t any fun but it was steady pay,
Sneaking out of work one lovely day
He met him a dolly called Mafi-yay.

Mafia thought he had a future ahead,
And looked like she knew how to bounce a bed
Old Roony must’ve been sick in the head
Cause pretty soon, they up and wed.

Now he’s got a record company,
A third of the profits plus salary,
A beautiful wife who wants to be free
So she can practice her Theory.

Roony, Roony Winsome, king of the decky-dance.