This short little book kept fascinating and frustrating me. But what else would you expect from a book that can be considered both a great postmodern work, as well as a great parody of postmodern writing? Pynchon himself tended to look down on his own work as he aged, and yes the book does have it's weaknesses, but for the most part, it's a fascinating little tale of both suspense and conspiracy, as well as postmodern musing on the nature of fact and understanding vs perception and fantasy. If you're on the fence about Pynchon or are unwilling to tackle one of his longer works, start here. I think you'll know whether or not you feel like reading him more from this very comfortably short novel.