by Tom McCarthy

This was a most intriguing and frustrating book. I was fascinated by the way the development of communication paralleled Serge's strange life story but felt at times that he was as much a cypher as any of the signals and codes the book describes. Inspite of this, I enjoyed the book for the brilliance of its descriptions and its chilling even eerie view of life.


And in the background of these iterations, like a relic of an old order, the sun: intoxicated, spewing gas and sulphur, black with cordite smoke and tar. As the summer months draw on, it seems to sicken. Rising beneath him on early-morning flights, its light's infected by the ghostly pallor of the salient's mists, driven a nauseous hue by green and yellow flashes. It darkens, not lightens, as each day progresses and the puff-balls, vapour clouds and tracer-lines build up. Its transit through the air seems laboured, as though the whirring mechanism that dragged it along its tracks were damaged and worn out.


Against the Day by Thomas Pynchon

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