As the book progresses and Oedipa get deeper into this seemingly never-ending mystery, things begin to get fuzzy for Oedipa (and for me, the reader). What's real? What's coincidence? What is a clue? What's just a meaningless pun or symbolism? It becomes difficult to discern what has any meaning behind it and what is just a rabbit trail Pynchon likes to send the reader on. As the story furthered, I felt more and more in the same boat as Oedipa, trying to figure out what the meaning behind everything was (if there was any at all). At times, though, it was difficult for me, as the reader, to tell what was fact and what were hallucinations being seen through the eyes of Oedipa. When more clues kept leading to more clues and the whole thing seemed infinite (and maybe even a joke), Oedipa begins to give up and, I must confess, I began giving up as well (wondering, has this book been made into a movie? And can I find it at BlockBuster?). I think it even began taking a physical toll on me (headaches) much like the toothaches it brought upon Oedipa.
As empathetic as I was towards Oedipa's emotional and psychological journey that, in the end, leaves her alone and isolated from everyone, I did want criticize her detective skills at times. For instance, why would she drop the investigating of the human bones scandal to look further into a conspiracy that she doesn't even know exist for sure? Really?
And the worst part, we never know if it gets "solved." Maybe that's because it doesn't matter. But, in the words of U2, I still haven't found what I'm/Oedipa's looking for. Whatever that is.
That is exactly as I feel!! Good thing the book is short.
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