Inherent Vice

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Overview

Part noir, part psychedelic romp, all Thomas Pynchon- private eye Doc Sportello surfaces, occasionally, out of a marijuana haze to watch the end of an era

In this lively yarn, Thomas Pynchon, working in an unaccustomed genre that is at once exciting and accessible, provides a classic illustration of the principle that if you can remember the sixties, you weren't there.

It's been a while since Doc Sportello has seen his ex-girlfriend. Suddenly she shows up with a story about a plot to kidnap a billionaire land developer whom she just happens to be in love with. It's the tail end of the psychedelic sixties in L.A., and ...

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More About This Book

Overview

Part noir, part psychedelic romp, all Thomas Pynchon- private eye Doc Sportello surfaces, occasionally, out of a marijuana haze to watch the end of an era

In this lively yarn, Thomas Pynchon, working in an unaccustomed genre that is at once exciting and accessible, provides a classic illustration of the principle that if you can remember the sixties, you weren't there.

It's been a while since Doc Sportello has seen his ex-girlfriend. Suddenly she shows up with a story about a plot to kidnap a billionaire land developer whom she just happens to be in love with. It's the tail end of the psychedelic sixties in L.A., and Doc knows that "love" is another of those words going around at the moment, like "trip" or "groovy," except that this one usually leads to trouble. Undeniably one of the most influential writers at work today, Pynchon has penned another unforgettable book.

  • Inherent Vice
    Inherent Vice

Editorial Reviews

Michael Dirda
For more than 45 years, Thomas Pynchon has been the hidden god of modern letters, rarely photographed, never interviewed, but nonetheless revered and worshiped, his name pronounced by the devoted with a hiccup of pure awe: Thomas, gulp, Pynchon. Fans even collect the few books for which he has given a dust-jacket blurb. Every word of the Master is precious. Nonetheless, Pynchon has often been -- at least until "Inherent Vice" -- a writer more admired than loved. Such imposing epics as "Gravity's Rainbow," "Mason & Dixon" and the recent "Against the Day" daunt even the most rugged readers. Assaults on such Everests require not only the usual climbing gear -- pitons and belaying ropes and what all -- but also oxygen canisters and Sherpa guides, as well. These majestic works are more than worth the effort, but they aren't what most people would call page-turners or comfort books. Which is just what "Inherent Vice" is. Imagine the cult film "The Big Lebowski" as a novel, with touches of "Chinatown" and "L.A. Confidential" thrown in for good measure. Imagine your favorite Raymond Chandler or James Crumley mystery retold as a hippie whodunit, set in Gordita Beach, Calif., at the very end of the 1960s. Imagine a great American novelist, one who is now a septuagenarian, writing with all the vivacity and bounce of a young man who has just discovered girls. Most of all, imagine sentences and scenes that are so much fun to read that you wish "Inherent Vice" were twice as long as it is. Imagine saying that about a Thomas Pynchon novel....

"Inherent Vice" may not be the Great American Novel, but it's certainly a Great American Read -- a terrific pastiche of California noir, wonderfully amusing throughout (and hard to quote from in a family newspaper because of the frequent use of, uh, colorful spoken language) and a poignant evocation of the last flowering of the '60s, just before everything changed and passed into myth or memory: "Sunrise was on the way, the bars were just closed or closing, out in front of Wavos everybody was either at the tables along the sidewalk, sleeping with their heads on Health Waffles or in bowls of vegetarian chili, or being sick in the street, causing small-motorcycle traffic to skid in the vomit and so forth. It was late winter in Gordita."
— The Washington Post
More Reviews (2) Fewer Reviews
From The Critics
Inherent Vice not only reminds us how rooted Mr. Pynchon's authorial vision is in the '60s and '70s, but it also demystifies his work, underscoring the similarities that his narratives—which mix high and low cultural allusions, silly pranks and gnomic historical references, mischievous puns, surreal dreamlike sequences and a playful sense of the absurd—share with the work of artists like Bob Dylan, Ken Kesey, Jack Kerouac and even Richard Brautigan.
—The New York Times
The Barnes & Noble Review
If Thomas Pynchon were a stand-up comedian, and Inherent Vice his newest routine, the heckling would start around page 10. "So Doc," relates a character called Denis (whose name, we are informed, is commonly pronounced to rhyme with -- heh, heh -- "penis"), "I'm up on Dunecrest, you know the drugstore there, and like I noticed their sign, 'Drug'? 'Store'? Okay? Walked past it a thousand times, never really saw it -- Drug, Store! man, far out, so I went in and Smilin Steve was at the counter and I said, like, 'Yes, hi, I'd like some drugs, please...' "

Boo! Get off! I mean, obviously -- by way of mitigation -- the character in question is a typically Pynchon-esque hippie burnout, and obviously some brand of haute-Pynchonoid satire is being enacted here upon the concept of, you know, "signs." But the fact remains: the drugstore/drugstore joke, qua joke, is an exhibition of stoner wit so feeble it would have been sent back by the writers of The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers and accepted only with some demurral by Cheech and Chong.

The '60s, of course, were a historic low point for humor. I mean humor of the sort enjoyed by people who aren't a) tenured or b) high, the sort defined by William James as "common sense, dancing." Categories, hierarchies, proprieties, the basic intuitions of mankind as to its own status and destiny -- those things on which humor has traditionally depended were suddenly up in the air, and while there was plenty of inane and liberated laughter to be heard, the sound of the authentic assenting chuckle, of the joke being solidly got, almost died away. Was everything meaningful, or nothing at all? Ah, that was the gag, the cosmic put-on, expressible only via cracked puns and the smirk of satori. Pynchon danced upon this pinhead with an insistent nimbleness: whose fictional world signified more compulsively and indiscriminately than his, the significance itself being quite beside the point? The quasi-allegorical names (Floyd Haruspex, Dichotomy Jones, Dr Whitewhale -- to make up a few in the Pynchonian vein), the veiled acronymic entities (WASTE, IGLOO) that might be gangs or priesthoods or think-tanks, the omnivore's digressions into science and pop culture, the fluorescent landscape, the sense of bottomless and undiscoverable conspiracy -- for a setup this elaborate, no earthly, or indeed celestial, punch line was possible.

With Inherent Vice Pynchon has returned to the territory of The Crying of Lot 49 -- which is to say, California in the late '60s. The Manson Family has just done their "thing," throwing a new shade of jitteriness (or "post-Mansonical nerves") into straight/hippie relations. Acid-gobbling Gordita Beach private dick Doc Sportello is trying to extricate his ex, the beautiful Shasta Fay, from a sketchy romantic embroilment with local real estate mogul Mickey Wolfmann, who has just disappeared, or been disappeared. The Aryan Brotherhood, on motorcyles, are making their presence felt, as is an ineffable organization called the Golden Fang. And the Feds, of course -- Special Agents Flatweed and Borderline -- are in attendance. Radio waves hum. Rudimentary computers are being used to collate data, combining with pandemic psychedelic telepathy to offer premonitory hints of a realm that may or may not, eventually, turn out to be cyberspatial: "I'm surfin' the wave of the future here," Doc's tech-geek pal tells him, "...I swear it's like acid, a whole 'nother strange world -- time, space, all that shit."

One way to enjoy Inherent Vice might be to imagine it as the work, not of Thomas Pynchon, but of a tenacious coven of Pynchon devotees -- pranksterish post-Aquarian zanies who have the great man locked away somewhere and are writing the books they think he should write. They know his rhythms and his obsessions, the deep grooves of his mind; they have the style down. At this point, who can say, they might be doing Pynchon better than Pynchon himself. "A private eye didn't drop acid for years in this town without picking up some kind of extrasensory chops..." They know that no detail, however mundane, is to be denied its ration of underglow; even the parking laws in Gordita Beach have been "devised secretly by fiendish anarchists to infuriate drivers into one day forming a mob and attacking the offices of town government." We meet a British band called Spotted Dick, coiffured uniformly in "scissor-cut asymmetric bobs," and clackety-clack goes the fake authorial brain towards a classic Pynchon almost-joke: "Last week in fact the lead vocalist had decided to change his name legally to Asymmetric Bob, after his bathroom mirror revealed to him, three hours into a mushroom experiment, that there were actually two distinct sides to his face, expressing two violently different personalities." Trippy, yeah. Funny? Of course not.

A saner appreciation of this book, perhaps, would salute it as the work of a reclusive literary eminence, a septuagenarian by most accounts, who still writes with the spermatic fizz of a 25-year-old ginning up for his first book tour. The surfers off Gordita Beach go "on rides of five minutes and longer through seething tunnels of solar bluegreen, the true and unendurable color of daylight." Doc Sportello, after an inhalation of Asian indica, "prepared to be knocked on his ass but instead found a perimeter of clarity not too hard to stay inside of." This is bravura, look-at-me stuff, of a caliber to rival that other great California drug novel, Denis Johnson's Already Dead.

At such moments Inherent Vice seems to escape from the droning orbit of Pynchon-ness and into a freer imaginative space, into seething tunnels of solar bluegreen, even. But then the old gnostic vibration returns, the paranoid's gleam, the feeling that "the world had just been disassembled, anybody here could be working any hustle you could think of, and it was long past time to be, as Shaggy would say, like, gettin' out of here, Scoob." Amen, brother. --James Parker

James Parker is the author of Turned On: A Biography of Henry Rollins (Cooper Square Press), and a correspondent for The Atlantic.

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781594202247
  • Publisher: Penguin Group (USA) Incorporated
  • Publication date: 8/4/2009
  • Pages: 384
  • Product dimensions: 9.54 (w) x 6.42 (h) x 1.21 (d)

Meet the Author

Thomas Pynchon
Thomas Pynchon
A huge modern influence, Thomas Pynchon's reputation as a contemporary literary giant is only enhanced by his adamant reclusivity (the photo shown here is one of the few of him ever to be published). His prose is so intimidatingly dense, his novels so thematically grand, that he presents a rewarding challenge to his readers and his would-be protegees.

Biography

Thomas Pynchon was born in 1937. His books include The Crying of Lot 49, Gravity's Rainbow, Vineland, and Mason & Dixon.

Author biography courtesy of HarperCollins.

    1. Also Known As:
      Thomas Ruggles Pynchon Jr. (full name)
    2. Hometown:
      New York, New York
    1. Date of Birth:
      May 8, 1937
    2. Place of Birth:
      Glen Cove, Long Island, New York
    1. Education:
      B. A., Cornell University, 1958
Customer Reviews
Average Rating 3.5
( 25 )

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  • Posted October 20, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    Tubular, Dude

    A hippie PI back in the good old days when dope was rampant along the beach and everybody was always willing to get high is the star of Inherent Vice. Best read under the spell of LSD, Thomas Pynchon's detective novel meanders along with its unique observations, colorful characters, and well, there's a plot, too. Right, dude. You see, bad guys are doing bad things, and many people, including good guys are caught up in the bad things. Who could you trust more to look into these things than a doped up hippie PI? The book is best read with little expectations, so, when you get into it, you will laugh out loud as I did at the dry humor, be puzzled by the constantly changing cast of characters and the re-spinning of facts that you thought you knew already.
    Then, just about when you think the trip is ending, there's a final ride to be had. Who are you going to trust? The facts or the dope?

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted September 27, 2009

    An average story, nothing great

    I found this story to be choppy, jumping back and forth without a lot of clarification.

    2 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted August 18, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Thomas Pynchon becomes user friendly...

    If you are already down with Thomas Pynchon (had to throw in some slang) then please ignore this first part. Pynchon's works can be a maze of obscure history and twisting plots. Some of his books are best read with a companion guide. But this book...well it stands fine on its own and is a great gateway into the strange world of Thomas Pynchon.

    Pynchon is my all time favorite author and a man I think deserves all the praise he receives. His newest tale is pretty cool and one that will be a sure fire hit with fans of the 60's counter culture and/or detective novels. The only complaint that I have is that at certain times the plot seemed to drag a bit for me. Not that I would cut down his work but there seemed some parts that just were there for the sake of being there. Maybe that's just my take. I did love the plot and some of the bizarre images that Mr. Pynchon delivers (The Godzilligan Island part had me rolling).

    Over all it was a good read with some neat history...it just wasn't my favorite of his. But there already is a "V" and "Gravities Rainbow" so there's no point in him pulling and AC/DC and putting out the same product over and over again. If you read this Mr. Pynchon...good job.

    P.S. Does anyone else hear Tommy Chong as the voice of Doc?

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 10, 2009

    Inherent Vice

    Fast, crazy, outrageous, funny. Lot's of characters to track. It's a lot of fun to read

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 26, 2009

    I forced my way through this book only to get my $20 worth.

    The story as well as the writing style was very hard to follow. At some points I had no idea what was going on or how it related to the overall plot of the story. The author uses more question marks than periods in the text, which makes the writing extremely confusing. If I hadn't spent my own money on ordering the book, I wouldn't have made it past the 2nd chapter. I wouldn't recommend this book at all.

    1 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted September 26, 2009

    Not my favorite

    dialogue between characters and other references were so jungoistic that I did not understand much of what was going on. Conversally, there was some definite humor when I finally did understand

    1 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted June 5, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Revisiting The Sixties

    Did you miss the whole '60's scene? The hippie, wanna-be-free feeling of beachfront California? Fear not. Readers can revisit this environment in Thomas Pynchon's book, Inherent Vice. Pynchon fans will recognize his style here; a rambling story that meanders from cultural icon to cultural icon, taking the reader along to whatever destination Pynchon has in mind, entertaining them along the way.

    Inherent Vice is the story of Doc Sportello, a private investigator who spends as little time working as he can get by on. He is visited by his ex-girlfriend, Shasta, who wants Doc to find her new boyfriend who seems to have disappeared. In the process of unraveling this mystery, Doc leads the reader through the discovery of the Internet, beach/surf music, a diabolical Eastern drug cartel, various right-wing thugs working for governmental or police agencies, Las Vegas before it was turned into Disneyland West, tons of marijuana smoking, lots of sex, and plenty of dubious characters. The whole chaotic journey devolves into a satisfactory conclusion where all the puzzles are solved and the good guys prevail.

    This book is recommended for all readers. Pynchon is an American treasure, one of the authors whose work will be read far into the future. His keen eye notes the details that make up a culture while his style entertains. Pynchon fans will be pleased with this book, and those who haven't yet discovered this author will be pleasantly surprised.

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  • Posted May 14, 2010

    Pynchon Fans Will Love This

    I have not read any Pynchon in a while. I read Mason and Dixon when it was new, and I was not too impressed by that. And, that was over ten years ago? I read V and Gravity's Rainbow, and Crying of Lot 49 in the 70's. So, it is difficult for me to compare this to his other works. But, my general feel is that is a typical Pynchon crazy-quilt of a book. Very inventive plot and filled with popular culture references - music (particularly surfer music), films (the main character is a huge John Garfield fan) and TV (many referrals to the standard network series of the time).
    This takes place in 1969, in post-Sharon Tate murder Los Angeles. Doc Sportello is a private eye, and he is initially approached by an old girl friend who is now involved with a real estate developer. She is afraid is that he about to be involuntarily committed by his wife, or worse. Then, Doc is hired by a woman who's husband was reported to have died in a drug overdose, but she believes that he is still alive. While investigating these two cases, Doc gets stuck in the middle of an intricate web of nefarious activity revolving around a secret syndicate of some sort called the Golden Fang and perhaps the LAPD.
    Not everyone will be taken in by this book. But, I love Pynchon's sense of humor and identify with Doc's penchant for constantly getting high.

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  • Posted February 15, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    Think Bjorn Borg, circa 1991-93

    Thomas Pynchon's playing with a wooden racket; the usual Pynchon wackiness palls after about 18 pages. It's readable, yes, even somewhat entertaining in spots, but TP should leave this kind of writing to the people who do it best--Michael Connelly, Henning Mankell, et alia.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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