Thomas Pynchon's Against the Day is disjointed but at the same time dense (and I fear ultimately unrewarding), but I have a senseless determination to finish what I've started—and what my dad can't finish. Somebody's got to complete the family work. I'm on p. 83 of 1085. ugh ugh ugh. So far the only thing I've written down: "tolerated by though not especially beloved of" (p. 60)
why I thought to mention it at all: an article in the stranger comments on the hugeness and inaccessibility of this book.