An extremely odd book if you've got a weekend to finish it off. How weird? One critic called it an exemplary postmodern text. Another called it a parody of postmodernism.See. Thomas Pynchon even confounded the critics.
It's about this woman (Oedipa), who's married to a LSD-taking disc jockey, who is named the executor of her ex-boyfriend's will. She gets wrapped up with a former Nazi doctor, a sexed up lawyer, and some off-beat history lesson about competing mail services and the secret society that maintained one group's existence in secret as if they were Christians in Nero's Rome.
Throughout this rambling narrative, there's a number of references to the Beatles and Vlad Nabokov. It's right in line with contemporaries like Kurt Vonnegut. Still don't know what I really think about it.
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