Looking for TRP

Something had gone all mushy and rotten in the heart of America. Life had lost image, and we had lost belief. No one was guilty, no one responsible. So we moved, intangible as the world around us, from event to event, from the theater to the discotheque and back again, stopping off for a quick peek at the galleries to see who was desperately painting what, a television sort of life: fast, acrid, without substance. Mushy and rotten.

Life became a rather medicated extravaganza, a pharmaceutical parody of monasticism and self-containment. All around, people were leaping to est, or to ever more complicated forms of charging high-priced articles, or to cocaine habits or to homosexuality. Men confused me with their fine clothes and careful, Victorian mustaches, and somehow it was a leap, like most others, that required more faith than I could find. So I lived like most everybody, torn between two possibilities that are equally unreal; the everything and the nothing that surround us at every moment.

from Robert Goolrick “Pieces of Pynchon”

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