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Mar 12, 2005 15:53

Around them frogs intoned a savage chorus, gradually it seemed to them -- spasmodic as they were, blinded yet curiously aware of this as little more than an entwining of little fingers, a touching of beer mugs, a McCall's togetherness -- working itself into a pedal bass for virtuoso duet of small breathings, cries; he puffing occasionally at the cigar throughout the performance, the ball cap tilted carelessly, she evoking a casually protective feeling, a never totally violated Pasiphae; until at last, having subsided, assailed still by stupid frog cries they lay not touching. "In the midst of great death," Levine said, "the little death." And later, "Ha. It sounds like a caption in Life. In the midst of Life. We are in death. Oh god."

---Thomas Pynchon
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