I wish I could write a profound review, stelliferous with jargon and theories.
Pynchon, for me, was associated with hipsters and students of literature loving their post-modern analyses disappearing into some sort of meta-xyz or deconstruction. He had never been on my list of authors to read, mostly due to my reluctance to read any more American authors than I already had, feeling the list had already grown disproportionately long and dulling my token effort to not melt into the hegemony.
I don't really know how it happened. Gravity's Rainbow has been sitting on the #1 spot of my to-read shelf, and two or three months from joining goodreads I started reading the shortest Pynchon I could find, unwilling to commit to a longer volume given the chances I may dislike it yet spend time hoisting the interminable pages and cursing my inability to drop a book once started.
I didn't like it much for the first few dozen of pages. Then it grew on me. No, I stopped 'reading' it and started 'seeing' it, stopped trying to make sense of it and started to get high on the awesome phrases this ex-navy-recluse put out. I read this book as I would watch a movie by McQueen. Turning off my brain and opening my eyes, looking at the sequence of words as I watched Hunger - frame by frame, picture by picture, forgetting the continuity, narrative, story, whatever. I was dazed. Who cares about the plot. I don't. Coherence and meaning? Not really. I enjoyed the book the way I saw it, and whatever I missed I didn't grieve for.