Nothing feels screwier about "Gravity's Rainbow" than known that its author Thomas Pynchon is one of the most notoriously reclusive authors. If a text ever demanded every last paragraph and ellipses to be explained, it was this one. The story infamously was so confusing upon release that while it qualified for The Pulitzer Prize, it was rejected for being at times too unreadable. The book is an enigma, a masterpiece of post-modernism that holds all of life's answers in passages that are sometimes too juvenile and gross to be taken seriously. It's a novel of precise details and dirty limericks, asking the question: what is this all worth? Many have read interpretations of World War II that have been abstract and entertaining ("Slaughterhouse-Five," "Catch-22"), but they can't compare to the massive experience of Pynchon's world. It doesn't make sense, and maybe that's the point? Who knows.
