Bad news

O The Modern World trazia ontem um suposto excerto do novo romance de Thomas Pynchon, que sai em Dezembro:

«Back in 1899, not long after the terrible cyclone that year which devastated the town, Young Willis Turnstone, freshly credentialed from the American School of Osteopathy, had set out westward from Kirksville, Missouri, with a small grip holding a change of personal linen, an extra shirt, a note of encouragement from Dr. A. T. Still, and an antiquated Colt in whose use he was far from practiced, arriving at length in Colorado, where one day riding across the Uncompahgre plateau he was set upon by a small band of pistoleros.“Hold it right there, Miss, let’s have a look at what’s in that attractive valise o’yours.”
“Not much,” said Willis.
“Hey, what’s this? Packing some iron here! Well, well, never let it be said Jimmy Drop and his gang denied a tender soul a fair shake now, little lady, you just grab ahold of your great big pistol and we'll get to it, shall we.” The others had cleared a space which Willis and Jimmy now found themselves alone at either end of, in classic throwdown posture. “Go on ahead, don’t be shy, I’ll give you ten seconds gratis, ’fore I draw. Promise.” Too dazed to share entirely the gang’s spirit of innocent fun, Willis slowly and inexpertly raised his revolver, trying to aim it as straight as a shaking pair of hands would allow. After a fair count of ten, true to his word and fast as a snake, Jimmy went for his own weapon, had it halfway up to working level before abruptly coming to a dead stop, frozen into an ungainly crouch. “Oh, pshaw!” the badman screamed, or words to that effect.
“Ay! Jefe, jefe,” cried his lieutenant Alfonsito, “tell us it ain’ your back again.”
“Damned idiot, o’ course it’s my back. Oh mother of all misfortune--and worst than last time too.”
“I can fix that,” offered Willis.
“Beg your pardon, what in hell business of any got-damn pinkinroller’d this be, again?”
“I know how to loosen that up for you. Trust me, I’m an osteopath.”
“It’s O.K., we’re open-minded, couple boys in the outfit are evangelicals, just watch where you’re putting them lilywhites now--yaaagghh--I mean, huh?”
“Feel better?”
“Holy Toledo,” straightening up, carefully but pain-free.
“Why, it’s a miracle.”
“Gracias a Dios!” screamed the dutiful Alfonsito.
“Obliged,” Jimmy guessed, sliding his pistol back in its holster.»


O problema aqui é que isto, não sendo catastrófico, também não é muito bom. As mailing lists já fervilham com rumores e muitos suspeitam que o excerto é apenas a última adenda a uma longa lista de fabricações - o cíclico festival contra-informativo que sempre precede uma nova erupção editorial do Homem Invisível.
Ficaria mais descansado se o rumor se viesse a revelar presciente, mas duvido.
O estilo de Pynchon é relativamente fácil de emular (como provaram David Foster Wallace e Neal Stephenson) e ainda mais fácil de parodiar (como provou o próprio Pynchon nos piores momentos de Vineland e Mason & Dixon). Este diálogo soa-me genuíno, seguindo a mesma matriz de pastiche barato que marcou algumas das suas páginas recentes.
Os augúrios não são bons, mas Pynchon sempre foi, página por página, um talento desigual. Resta esperar por Dezembro e pelas good news.