Pynchon

It plays, as Metzger remarked later, like a Road Runner cartoon in blank verse.

She couldn't stop watching his eyes. They were bright black, surrounded by an incredible network iof lines, like a laboratory maze for studying intelligence in tears. They seemed to know what she wanted, even if she didn't .

"You see, in spring, when the dandelions begin to bloom again, the wine goes through fermentation. As if they remembered."
No, thought Oedipa, sad. As if their home cemetery in some way still did exist, in a land where you could somehow walk, and not need the East San Narciso Freeway, and bones still could rest in peace, nourishing ghosts of dandelions, no one to plow them up. As if the dead really do persist, even in a bottle of wine.

She knew, because she had held him, that he suffered DT's. Behind the initials was a metaphor, a delirium tremens, a trembling unfurrowing of the mind's plowshare.

"The historical Shakespeare," growled one of the grad students through a full beard, uncapping another bottle. "The historical Marx. The historical Jesus."

But should Bortz have exfoliated the mere words so lushly, into such unnatural roses, under which, in whose red, scented dusk, dark history slithered unseen?