Mason & Dixon by Thomas Pynchon

Author:Thomas Pynchon [Pynchon, Thomas]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Published: 2010-08-06T16:57:06.959000+00:00

"But I knew him! in France!— Oui, he once commented upon my brais'd Pork Liver with Aubergines,— offer'd to teach me the St. George Parry if I'd give him the Receipt."

"He was esteem'd for that, indeed, and for his Hanging Guard,— I'd show you it, but I wouldn't want to nick up the old Spadroon."

"Damascus steel, 's it not? Fascinating. How is that Moire effect done?"

"By twisting together two different sorts of Steel, or so I am told,— then welding the Whole."

"A time-honor'd Technique in Pastry as well. The Armorers of the Japanese Islands are said to have a way of working carbon-dust into the steel of their Swords, not much different from how one must work the Butter into the Croissant Dough. Spread, fold, beat flat, spread, again and again, eh? till one has created hundreds of these prodigiously thin layers."

"Gold-beating as well, now you come to it," puts in Mr. Knockwood,

- 'tis flatten and fold, isn't it, and flatten again, among the thicknesses of Hide, till presently you've these very thin Sheets of Gold-Leaf."

"Lamination," Mason observes.

"Lo, Lamination abounding," contributes Squire Haligast, momentarily visible, "its purposes how dark, yet have we ever sought to produce

these thin Sheets innumerable, to spread a given Volume as close to pure Surface as possible, whilst on route discovering various new forms, the Leyden Pile, decks of Playing-Cards, Contrivances which, like the Lever or Pulley, quite multiply the apparent forces, often unto disproportionate results...."

"The printed Book," suggests the Revd, "— thin layers of pattern'd Ink, alternating with other thin layers of compress'd Paper, stack'd often by the Hundreds."

"Or an unbound Heap of Broadsides," adds Mr. Dimdown, "dispers'd one by one, and multiplying their effect as they go."

The Macaroni is of course not what he seems, as which of us is?— the truth comes out weeks later, when he is discover'd running a clandestine printing Press, in a Cellar in Elkton. He looks up from the fragrant Sheets, so new that one might yet smell the Apprentices' Urine in which the Ink-Swabs were left to soften, bearing, to sensitiz'd Nasalia, sub-Messages of youth and Longing,— all about him the word repeated in large Type, LIBERTY.

One Civilian leads in a small band of Soldiers. "Last time you'll be seeing that word."

"Don't bet your Wife's Reputation on it," the Quarrelsome Fop might have replied. Philip Dimdown, return'd to himself, keeps his Silence.

"If we choose to take the Romantic approach,—

"We must," appeals Tenebras. "Of course he was thinking about her. How did they part?"

"Honorably. He kept up the Fop Disguise till the end."

"Impossible, Uncle. He must have let her see.. .somehow,. .at the last moment, so that then she might ciy, bid him farewell, and the rest."

"The rest?" Ives alarm'd.

"After she meets someone else."

"Aaahhgghh!" groans Ethelmer.

"Never ends!" adds Cousin DePugh.

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