It was in April, but for a second or two as he was coming awake in the strange room and the racket of big and little cousins’ feet down the stairs, he thought of winter, because so often he’d been wakened like this, at this hour of sleep, by Pop, or Hogan, bundled outside still blinking through an overlay of dream into the cold to watch the Northern Lights.
They scared the shit out of him.
—-Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow
“She couldn’t stop watching his eyes. They were bright black, surrounded by an incredible network of lines, like a laboratory maze for studying intelligence in tears. They seemed to know what she wanted, even if she didn’t.”
― Thomas Pynchon, The Crying of Lot 49
Something there is that doesn’t love a postman,
That sends the cardinal steel twisting willy nilly.
And spills the upper hemicycle lines akimbo,
And makes the lid lean for two arms too bent.
The work of welders is another thing:
I have come after them and tried to make repair,
To find their fiery alchemy is too staunch,
Where they have left not one steel plate on plate,
But they would have the parcels and pouches out of hiding, exposed to the rain and sleet.
To please the yelping dogs.
And all know dogs don’t love a postman.
I think I’ll send an email.