Gravity’s Rainbow

I just cracked open “Gravity’s Rainbow” by Thomas Pynchon.  It’s proven a little slow to get into, but that man can sure stretch out a sentence.  He has entire paragraphs (and not little pansy paragraphs either) that contain a solitary sentence.  Ever play that writing game where you pass around a paper on which everyone adds one or two sentences, as a group making a complete story?  Pynchon would win that game every time. I’m sure people hated playing it with him (he cheats).

I feel I should quote a passage of the book for you to get a true understanding.  In reference to the rain:
“No, this is not a disentanglement from, but a progressive knotting into–they go in under archways, secret entrances of rotted concrete that only looked like loops of an underpass . . . certain trestles of blackened wood have moved slowly overhead, and the smells begun of coal from days far to the past, smells of naphtha winters, of Sundays when no traffic came through, of the coral-like and mysteriously vital growth, around the blind curves and out the lonely spurs, a sour smell of rolling-stock absence, of maturing rust, developing through those emptying days brilliant and deep, especially at dawn, with blue shadows to seal its passage, to try to bring events to Absolute Zero . . . and it is poorer the deeper they go . . . ruinous secret cities of poor, places whose names he has never heard . . . the walls break down, the roofs get fewer and so do the chances for light.”

You may not understand everything this sentence is saying (I don’t), but I think we can all agree that it is indeed a mother of a sentence.

What do you think?