Thomas Pynchon | The Crying of Lot 49 | 1966

Dearest Oedipa,

I find this letter to you will be weighed down by two competing concerns.

First, I think I fell a little in love with you. This is by far the larger of the two matters, the one that made gravity's pull seem a suggestion, not a law. It is an idea: short, simply stated, and done.

Second, I'm not sure how best to get this to you. What delivery system will reach you? What address? What stamp? Gravity returns.

One matter seems so ephemeral. One so material. I guess that's the point, right?

Yours,
Sean Ferrell

Thomas Pynchon | Gravity's Rainbow | 1973

Dear Tyrone,

You should have never chased that harmonica down the sewer. Once you did, there was no turning back, and you eventually found yourself running around post-war Europe in a cape looking for a rocket. That's always how it goes--things spiral out of control, and eventually lose shape, purpose and meaning. After that, all that's left is slapstick and song. I realize that you began to fade at the end of Gravity's Rainbow, but that's always the fate of heat--to dissipate and spread its information into other forms, promiscuous with datapoints. You did just that, and then moved on to bigger and better things. Or so we like to think.

Best regards,
Darren Cahr