Is it weird to say that Bleeding Edge was my most anticipated pop culture piece to come out this year? It's safe to say that Pynchon is a functioning part of pop culture, even if it's not recognized on a wider platform. Any 76 year old who references Britney Spears and Metal Gear Solid in his 8th novel clearly has a niche for weird, wacky writing down. Calling Bleeding Edge and Inherent Vice, his 2009 stoner detective novel "Pynchon Lite" may not be totally inaccurate, but it undercuts the pulsing humanism and reconciliation with the world that Pynchon has found in his later years. Bleeding Edge is fairly straightforward for a Pynchon novel--the plot is mostly linear, there's no extensive continent jumping, and as far as I remember, no one goes through an existential crisis while shoving their head down a toilet. The transcendental weirdness of Gravity's Rainbow and V. has been sidelined a bit in Bleeding Edge, still poking its head out frequently, but human interaction powers the novel through a new technological world. There's a fair amount of interaction with the technology itself, a network of transactions and conversations called DeepArcher, and that's where much of the transcendence of the work comes from. Pynchon seems hell-bent on staying on the bleeding edge, on understanding what it means to always be connected, for the guise of privacy to slowly crumble and fall. I was a bit perplexed as to why he would choose to set the novel in 2001, as the title "Bleeding Edge" has been surpassed by those practically archaic standards. The further the novel evolves, however, the emphasis shifts to the cuts and gashes this edge inflicts on its characters and the world at large.
Maxine Tarnow, the somewhat divorced detective who acts as the protagonist, discovers that there are some shady financial dealings within a company called hashslingrz, ran by the mysterious Gabriel Ice. As she delves into the deep web and the meat world that accompanies it, the machinations of a separated world move to make the occult both more accessible and terrifying. The boundaries between the worlds slowly fade as Maxime weaves between Russian gangsters, right wing Israeli operatives, and detectives who can smell fires before they occur. It's telling that the traditional Pynchonian weirdness doesn't revolve around talking dogs or postal service conspiracies, but the people who create the networks, who buy the fiber. The world has achieved Pynchon's vision of paranoia, and we should all stop and ask ourselves what that means.
The novel is a mystery, noir in parts. It's also a love letter to New York City, Pynchon's home. While the haze of California seems better suited for his lazy slacker detectives, the breakneck social stratification of the city creates a fair amount of tension-- there's never a sense that it doesn't matter, but Ice and his finances are so elusive that the rabbit hole of fiber and bandwidth provides for plenty of absurd existentialism. Maxine is totally immersed in a world she doesn't fully understand, her children are obsessed with playing violent video games (the blood animations disabled, of course) and she meets with revolutionary blogger March, who coincidentally is Ice's mother-in-law. It's a wide cast of characters, par the course, but they're never not interesting. The world of the bleeding edge on the verge of collapse is a writhing beast that never quiets. The balance between work and family goes a long way to characterize Maxine as a strong, intelligent woman who's not really sure what's going on but sure acts like she does. The chapters that focus on her hyperintelligent kids and dopey yet lovable quasi-ex husband Horst are emotionally affecting and oddly sentimental for Pynchon.
The 9/11 attacks act as a catalyst for the collapse of the industry, and the paranoia associated with the terrorist act could have devolved into something heinous. However, it's a quiet blip in the overall scheme of the human drama. Plenty of the conspiracies in Bleeding Edge go nowhere, and that's just how it goes. The never-ending links of the deep web allow for all craziness to gain a platform, and video cameras and shaky footage perpetuate what isn't real. DeepArcher in particular perpetuates the meshing of reality and whatever else there is. This is what meanders a bit, isn't as refined as it could be, but what does it matter when the rest is so precise and biting.
Bleeding Edge is a triumph. Pynchon shows no signs of stopping, and I hope he doesn't. It's always a pleasure to delve into his worlds.
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