I have no choice but to award Gravity's Rainbow
five stars. Now, that could be because I've been up since 5 am, or I could attribute it to the fact that I'm a couple martinis in and it's only 9 pm, but I prefer to think it's because Thomas Pynchon is a bloody genius. And not in the generic "oh, he's so smart" way. Pynchon somehow manages to make a story about rockets and psychology and sex and species extinction and theology and penis jokes and giant moving tonsils and astrology and World War II and Mickey Rooney and calculus—and make it work too. Had anybody else attempted this, the novel would've grown fists and knocked them out. But not Thomas Pynchon. This guy is insane.