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[RF] Pale in Comparison

Winter had sucked all the color out of the world.
The prairie in the glory of midsummer had been a surge of green, summer winds sending pulses through the tall grass, causing it to wave like an underwater kelp forest in a strong current. Now, however, it had relinquished its blooming majesty, its former radiance dulled to straw the color of a deerhide. The flowerheads were stripped of their colorful identities, appearing like sepia photographs of themselves; the ghosts of summer past. The sweetclover, which had extended from one horizon to the other back in June, covering the prairie in a blanket of gold, was now skeletonized, its broken-off stems rolling like tumbleweeds in the winter gales.
Trevor was over it. Another South Dakota winter, another four months until the snows would cease and the ice would melt in the creek. In March and April, the spring blizzards would bury the world and on the subsequent sunny days, the combination of blue sky and white land would be startling, like finding oneself living in the center of a bicolored flag.
But for now, a capricious midwinter thaw had left snowdrifts only in the prairie draws, on the north-facing ridges, in the shadows of the ponderosas that speckled the hills. And around the trailer, mud. In a few nights, a deep freeze would turn the sides of the tire ruts into knife edges, testing the suspension of any vehicle that took the approach too fast. Still, that was better than the loamy mud, which could imprison even a 4x4 until freezing cold or drying winds finally freed it.
The view from the front porch could be gorgeous. Back in July, when the church group from Virginia had constructed a wheelchair ramp for the trailer, the evening sun had set the prairie on fire, its light reflected by a thunderstorm hanging in the sky as if by a puppeteer’s strings. “God almighty,” the youth pastor had exclaimed. But now, grays and browns mingled in a decidedly drab palette. Over at the little bird feeder, the goldfinches were no longer yellow-and-black exclamation points, but had acquiesced to dullness, dressed for a time of year when vibrant color seemed to be outlawed by some unseen authority.
Trevor stared at the expanse of mud that spooled out from in front of the trailer and unwound into a ribbon that led over the hill toward the old sundance ground and, eventually, the paved road. He wondered if he would get out today. Always a calculation this time of year. Driving on the muddy channel that was his approach was out of the question; he would set a course across the grass, which would provide enough barrier to keep his tires from sinking in again. Two-tracks radiating out onto the prairie showed how many times he and his family had taken this course of action since the last snow.
It felt ironic that their approach took them by far the long way around – heading north to go south; harder than it needed to be, like so much of life around here. But the way south was blocked by Roanhorse Creek. This wasn’t all bad; the creek provided nice wading in the summer and water for the horses for most of the year. It also gave rise to the only trees on the property, although the cottonwoods whose leaves whispered in the summer breezes now stood dumb and impassive, and resembled skeletal wraiths at nighttime.
A horse would make it, of course. He could saddle up the buckskin, ride cross-country and be in town in twenty minutes. But that would be silly…he snorted at the ludicrousness of this thought. First of all, he had to go way beyond town today. And even if he were just going to his old job at the tribal building, was he supposed to just hitch it up outside for the day? Tie its reins to one of the smokers’ benches by the entrance? What was this, 1895? No, better not to risk TȟatéZi getting stolen or having some gang sign spraypainted on it or some shit. Besides, he needed to pull into his job interview looking halfway decent, not spattered with mud and smelling like horse sweat.
Trevor regarded his truck, sitting smack in the middle of the sloppy mess. Fuck, he thought.
Still, he didn’t really have a choice today. No job interview, no job. No job, no funds. Another calculation, but this one was straightforward. He went back into the trailer and made his way to his bedroom in the back, passing his brothers in the living room. One was sleeping on the couch and the other was crashed out in the recliner, oblivious to the flickering hearth of the muted TV. Let ‘em sleep today, Trevor thought.
In the bedroom, he stepped across piles of clothes – some clean, some dirty – and over the miscellany of his life; a pile of old DVDs, a defunct gaming console, a canister of Bugler and squares of broadcloth for the tobacco ties he was supposed to make for ceremony, a scattering of empty Mountain Dew cans, a 24-pack of ramen, a basketball.
He hunted around in his closet for the dressy clothes that he knew were there. He had worn them once, on the day of his high school graduation, three years before. And there they were; a purple button-down shirt, a solid black tie, and black chinos. Further rummaging found him a pair of brown loafers and a tan braided belt. He would look sharp for this interview – couldn’t hurt.
Trevor took a quick shower. The hot water always took forever to come and once it did, didn’t last long. He got dressed hurriedly, glad the tie that had come as a set with the shirt was a clip-on, and ran a comb through his hair. It wasn’t long enough to do much with other than backcomb it a little with some hair gel, but he figured that looked better than not. He considered putting in big stud earrings to look extra fly, but decided again it; might not be the right look for the occasion.
Now fully dressed and ready, Trevor took stock of his appearance. His summer tan was long gone and his skin was as pale as the white kids he had met during his one semester of college. The same change of season that had desaturated the prairie and garbed the birds in dull colors had undone all those days spent out in the badlands sun – working with the horses, swimming at the dam, helping keep fire at sundance. Too many French fur traders in his lineage. He recalled the book that his eighth grade teacher had assigned them – Part-time Indian or something – and thought, Yup, that’s me. Indian in the summer and wašiču in the winter, like changing plumage.
Trevor envied his brothers their melanin. He had learned that word in one of his college classes and now thought of it nearly every day. Travis was a rich brown complexion even in the dark days of midwinter. Trenton was in between the two but had jet-black Lakota hair and definitely looked “ethnic,” enough to be followed around stores in the border towns. Trevor knew it was his privilege to be exempt from such treatment, but it bugged him nonetheless. He hadn’t asked to be light-skinned. His brothers called him žiží – a reference to his tawny hair. They had gotten into scraps over this, and Trevor even bloodied Travis’ nose in one such altercation. Once one of them had even called Trevor a “half-breed” but Trevor retorted with “Fuck you, boy, you got the same blood as me. Fuckin’ dumbass.” This seemed to put the issue to rest.
Trevor’s brief stint at college had been at an out-of-state school, which now struck him as an ill-advised decision. At least South Dakotans had some experience with Natives. Even the East River kids had at least crossed paths with one at some point, and didn’t think of Indians as something from the pages of a dime novel. Trevor was the first Native in many years – maybe ever – to attend the small-town liberal arts college in a neighboring state. He thought the fact that the college was reasonably selective would mean that the students were smart enough not to ask dumb questions. He was wrong.
The queries were predictable enough, clichéd even; Are you really Indian? (Yes) Do you speak your language? (No) Did you get in because you’re Indian? (Who knows? I’m pretty smart and got good grades.) Does the college have admissions quotas for Indians? (If it did, you’d think more would go here.) What’s it like on the reservation? (I don’t know; different.) Do you prefer “Native American”? (I find the question annoying, to be honest.) Do you like Leslie Marmon Silko? (Who?) Have you seen Dances with Wolves? (Some of it.) Do you know a guy from Pine Ridge named Verdell? He used to work with my dad. (Maybe) His last name was something Horse. Running Horse? (No)
Fielding these questions was exhausting and added another layer of weariness and alienation to his college experience.
He found himself having to answer such inquiries from his roommate, classmates, professors, his R.A…Sometimes they were cloaked in well-meaning concern (I bet you get tired of all these questions, huh?) but they were always there. Most evenings, Trevor would retreat to his room and call his mom. His roommate, Skyler, a cross-country runner who was handsome in an unspectacular way and who monitored his water intake religiously, was hardly ever around. He seemed to have no trouble making friends in college and reveled in the social opportunities around him.
In his phone calls back home, Trevor found himself experiencing a homesickness that inhabited the pit of his stomach like a hunger pang. He had never been gone from home for that long. Really, his only trip away had been the summer before his senior year, to a weeklong STEM camp for Native kids that one of the state colleges had put on. But that had been with a half dozen other students from his high school. Here he was alone.
The subjects of their conversations would leave Trevor feeling a gravitational pull toward home: Trenton got into a fight at school and got suspended. Travis is drinking again. We had sweat for your auntie because they have to amputate her leg after all. Those dogs were back again. Everett hit $200 at the casino on Tuesday night but of course he put it all back in. They’re having a basketball tournament for that boy who got paralyzed in that wreck. Our hot water heater went out but uncle came and fixed it. They still haven’t found that Two Arrows girl that went missing. Travis wants to go up on the hill this spring – maybe that will get him to quit drinking.
Good news, bad news, mundane news…The latter tugged at him the most. Like many who grew up on Pine Ridge, he had a love-hate relationship with the reservation. It was the home of his people after all, and could be so beautiful (“God’s country,” as it was called by even those who had no time for the white man’s God). But the hardships, the tragedies, the death…it all wore away at your spirit, hardened you. Still, the news of day-to-day life going on in his absence; a school powwow, a bingo tournament, tribal council drama, rumors of a Dairy Queen opening. It made him miss home in an ineffable way.
The last vestige of his indecision evaporated after a particular conversation in the lounge of his dorm. He had been sitting on a beanbag chair, discussing random topics with two friends (at least, he considered them friends, in some ill-defined adolescent way). They had all left a dull party that hadn’t livened up even after a couple of drinks, but still felt heady and obligated to prolong the night a little longer. So, they were shooting the shit, in a garishly-lit common space that smelled of burnt popcorn, and Trevor was feeling rather collegiate. An off-campus party, late-night conversation; weren’t these the trappings of university life that he had seen in teen movies, if a much more prosaic version?
Kayleigh, tipsy off Jäger bombs, started the chain of events that would unravel his college experience with a simple, but pointed question: “How Indian are you, anyway?”
Colton snorted at this comment. “Kay, you can’t just ask that!” But he was clearly more amused than disapproving.
“You mean like my blood quantum or what?” Trevor asked.
“Is that what you guys call it?” said Kay, now playing the innocent party. “I just mean, like, you say you’re Indian, I mean like I know you are, like, I know you are on paper…” The alcohol was causing her to trip over her words but she plowed on. “I mean like, okay, if I were to like, run into you on the street…” Kay was now gesturing expansively, as if the meaning of what she was saying wasn’t explicit from words alone. “Like, I wouldn’t be like, ‘Damn, look at that Indian,’ right? I’d just assume you were a white guy. I mean you know what I mean? Ugh, I’m not making sense.”
She was making perfect sense. Colton looked embarrassed, and for a second, Trevor thought he might shut Kay down. But instead, his inhibition similarly worn down by a few shots of German 70-proof, he followed suit. “I think what Kay’s drunk ass is trying to say is, like, your ancestors are Indians, right, like in the history books. Like Geronimo or whatever. But do you consider yourself one of them? Or are you, like, their descendant?”
Trevor could feel the ball of rage growing within him, a sea urchin radiating spikes in his gut. Stop talking, he thought. Just stop talking.
Colton continued, heedlessly. “Okay, so like I’m Irish but I’m not like Irish Irish, like a leprechaun or some shit. Like my ancestors…”
Trevor stood up, his fists balled. He was now stone-cold sober but his anger was its own intoxicant. “It’s none of your fucking business. It’s none of your business what the fuck I am!” He was shouting; he couldn’t help it. He picked up a half-empty can of PBR and threw it at the wall, slamming the door to the lounge on his way out. The sudsy contents of the can leaked onto the ugly orange dorm carpet, as Kayleigh and Colton sat in stunned silence.
“Jesus,” said Colton finally. “Just trying to ask an honest question.”
After that, Trevor had holed up in his room for a few days, skipping classes and avoiding other students. When he told his mom he was dropping out, she hardly sounded surprised. He knew she would be glad to have him back home; the prodigal son returning. Trevor, the one who had his shit together, who had gone to a STEM camp and was almost salutatorian. He knew she thought that once he got back, he could do what she couldn’t; get Travis on a better path, bring another income to the household, fix what needed to be fixed around the trailer, shoot at the stray dogs when they came around. It would all fall to him. His failure was their blessing; they would lean on him as long as he could stand.
So here we fucking go, he now thought, patting his gel-stiffened hair and giving himself one last hazel-eyed glance in the mirror. Gotta get that bread. His brief stint at the tribal building hadn’t panned out. He was a good worker but wet weather made his road too sloppy to get out easily. Too many latenesses had translated into a pink slip. “Shit man we all got bad roads. Gotta leave earlier,” his boss had said.
So, lesson learned, he was giving himself extra time getting ready for this interview. Really, the lady had just told him to come by “around mid-morning,” so he’d probably be okay. The job was off-rez, down at the county livestock auction and sale barn in one of the closest border towns, “white towns,” as Ridgers called it. It was mostly going to be paperwork – inventory and itemizing and that kind of shit – but it was decent pay and Trevor hoped that he could transition over to working with the animals before long. On most days, he preferred their company to dumbass people.
Grabbing his bag, Trevor stuck the loafers inside with his other miscellany. He would need to wear his cowboy boots across the muddy expanse between the bottom step of the porch and the door to his Blazer so he jammed his feet into them. Outside, he walked gingerly so as not to stain his black slacks with muck. Once in the driver’s seat, he figured he would leave the boots on for the drive, since they were already smearing mud on the floor liner, and in case he got stuck and needed to get out. Trevor knew that the people who worked at the sale barn were as countrified as he was and wouldn’t judge muddy boots under most circumstances, but he also knew that being from Pine Ridge meant he had to put his best foot forward, literally in this case.
Trevor fired up the Blazer, put it in four low, and gunned it. His tires found grip and he jerked along, slimy divots of earth spattering his windows and roof like hail. His windshield wipers left a pasty smear that obscured much of his view, but he practically knew the way by feel. As soon as he could, he bumped up onto the grass, gopher holes and clumps of prairie bluestem jolting his ride, testing what was left of his suspension. When he finally hit the pavement, the smoothness was startling as it always was, like a TV being suddenly muted, like silence after a door slamming.
He cruised through town, passing the gas station, the other gas station, the commod building, the quonset hut, the old BIA headquarters…and turned south into Nebraska. He tried to ignore the persistent squeal under the hood that had gotten worse lately. The overcast sky reflected the dullness of the land – as below, so above – and Trevor alternated between zoning out and counting hawks on telephone poles. A handful of miles south of the border, the vehicle gave a jolt and Trevor felt a temporary loss of control. He hit the brakes and steered toward the shoulder, but the Blazer was suddenly steering like an army tank. Fuck, he whispered.
Once he wrestled Blazer off the road, Trevor got out and popped the hood. He already knew what he would find under the rising steam. “Fucking serpentine belt,” he hissed to the universe. Trevor was good with cars but he didn’t have the tools for this fix. Luckily, he thought, out here in the country, somebody who did would be by soon. Lots of Natives on this road, maybe even a cousin would happen by who could at least give him a ride to town. Trevor thought of calling his dad’s brother Everett on his cell, but figured he’d give it a bit. He hated the thought of owing Uncle Ev anything.
Sure enough, in a few minutes, a gunmetal gray truck passed by slowly, hit a u-turn, and pulled up behind him. Trevor felt a twinge of envy over this late-model Dodge Ram MegaCab with duallies. It had county plates on it, so the cowboy-hatted driver was a local guy, and as he got out, his Carhartt overalls and mud-caked boots identified him as a rancher.
“Trouble?” MegaCab asked, giving Trevor an easy smile.
“Serpentine belt busted,” said Trevor, unconsciously smoothing out his rez accent in favor of a more neutral affectation. Code-switching – another term he had learned at college (by the professor who asked him if he prefers “Native American”).
“No shit, huh?” MegaCab considered this information. “I got nothing for that but I could give you a ride somewhere. You call anyone? Someone coming after you?”
“No,” said Trevor. “I’m trying to get down to the sale barn for a job interview.”
MegaCab looked at Trevor as if for the first time. “Oh ok so that’s why you’re all fancied up. Well, hop in if you don’t mind leaving it here.”
Trevor considered this. He was off the rez so there was less of a chance that the Blazer would end up with busted windows or slashed tires. And he was eager to get his interview over and done with.
Before he could answer, MegaCab added “I have to stop in Whiteclay first but then I’ll take you down.”
This was only a few miles out of the way so Trevor assented and climbed into the rancher’s idling behemoth. It still retained some new-truck smell, mixed with a tinge of manure and rich earth. Really, it was almost luxurious.
MegaCab flipped a u-ey again and headed back north toward Whiteclay. Formerly notorious for copious alcohol sales to people from the dry reservation whose border it sat on, Whiteclay’s package stores had been shuttered after the state had revoked their liquor licenses following years of protests over their depredatory business model. Now, it was just a town of a couple small stores and fewer than a dozen permanent residents, its streets empty of vagrants, its ghosts banished.
“So, you from Hot Springs?”
Trevor momentarily wondered where this question had come from, and then remembered that he had 27-plates on the Blazer – Fall River County, a relic of when he bought the car from a white lady over there. He had kept the off-county registration because the plates were far less likely to get you pulled over off-rez than the infamous 65s of Oglala Lakota County.
MegaCab continued without waiting for an answer. “I used to go up to Hot Springs a lot when my dad was in the V.A. hospital up there. Nice town.”
“Yup, it’s pretty nice,” said Trevor, wondering if he would have to sustain this small talk the whole way.
Luckily, MegaCab took it from there, reminiscing about his high school football team dealing Hot Springs a particularly lopsided loss, and then they were at Whiteclay. Trevor played around on his phone while his driver of the moment went into the little grocery store. He looked up his old roommate Skyler on Facebook (why, he didn’t know; certainly not to friend him) and then Googled “Pine Ridge South Dakota Dairy Queen” just to see if there was any truth to that rumor.
MegaCab returned with some mail – Trevor had forgotten that there was a little post office in there – and they turned south toward Rushville.
Two miles and five hawks-on-telephone-poles into their trip, MegaCab got chatty again:
“I still can’t believe that the state revoked the liquor licenses. They had no legal right to do that of course, but just like everyone else these days, they bowed to the pressure from liberal special interest groups. Those store owners – my brother was one of them – followed the damn law to a T but still got their rights taken away. They’re the real victims in all of this.”
Trevor, whose father was found dead in Whiteclay when Trevor was ten years old, didn’t answer.
“You know it’s just going to push the problem down the road. These Indians are gonna get their liquor one way or another. You guys must see that all the time up in Hot Springs.”
These Indians. You guys. Trevor suddenly recognized MegaCab’s presumption, and wondered when if he should correct it.
“If they wanted to buy millions of cans of beer in Whiteclay every year and drink themselves to death, shit, I say let ‘em. It’s a free country, right? Those AIM types are always going on about Native rights and shit, y’know? Well shit, you have the right to drink and die if you want. Not saying that I want that for those people or anything, but the nanny state can’t be protecting everyone from problems of their own making.”
Trevor, whose brother had first gotten jailed for drunk and disorderly at age 14, two years after their father died, said nothing.
MegaCab continued to rhapsodize about “the Indians” and their problems, adopting the tone of an expert, one who knew all about them. Trevor felt the blood rise to his face. Some coloration at least, he thought darkly. In the pit of his stomach, the sea urchin had returned to stab at his insides. What must it be like, he wondered, to live a life in which people aren’t constantly telling you who you are, naming your characteristics like symptoms, trying to trap you like a spirit in a photograph?
The Blazer came in sight on the shoulder ahead. “Can you let me out at my ride?” Trevor asked, his voice hardly recognizable to his own ear, like hearing himself talk underwater.
“Sure, you need to grab something out of it?” said MegaCab, reluctantly pausing his diatribe.
“No it’s okay,” replied Trevor, “I’m gonna call someone to come help me fix this after all.” He fiddled with his phone as if to underscore this intention.
“Well, if you’re sure,” said MegaCab. “And hey,” he added as Trevor stepped down onto the running board. “You be careful around here. One of these rezzers might see you here all by yourself and try to mess you or your car up. And watch out for drunk drivers. You just never know with these Indians.” MegaCab gave a serious nod to accentuate this show of concern. Then he wished Trevor luck and drove off.
Trevor watched the truck recede into the distance until it was merely a gray speck between the monochrome earth and the steely sky. He sat down in the cold front seat of the Blazer and looked into the rearview mirror. Hazel eyes stared back at him under a pale forehead. Fuck it, he thought; people are dumbasses. Let ‘em believe what they want; that he was from Hot Springs, that could be was related to that Apache, Geronimo, that he was only Indian on paper. Trevor saw what they didn’t; the hidden depths beneath the surface, and in their faces, in the spaces between their words, their ignorance displayed like a tattoo.
In another minute or two, he would call Uncle Ev for a ride. In another hour or two, he would be offered a job at the sale barn that would bring another income into his household (and buy him a new serpentine belt). In another day or two, he would finally finish the tobacco ties for ceremony, at which he would pray for Travis’ sobriety and his auntie’s diabetes. In another month or two, the lengthening of the days would be unmistakable.
Spring would come as it always had, first heralded by a single meadowlark piercing the predawn silence with his song. This would be followed by a green sprig on the prairie, pushing up, perhaps, through snow. Then a cluster of pasqueflowers appearing suddenly on a hillside, a skein of geese overhead, sheet lightning on the horizon. Small miracles, one after another. Finally, color would surge back into the world like paint scintillating on a canvas, causing goldfinches to glow like stars and evening thunderheads to stand like towering fires.
The brilliant Dakota sunlight would stoke the melanin in Trevor’s skin, and nobody would mistake who he was. He would go up on the hill for two days and nights with Travis that spring, and Trenton would keep fire for them. He would pray for the coming year, for the survival of his people, for enough blessings to outweigh the hardships. And there, among a sea of undulating green, facing the crimson blaze of sunrise, he would again know himself and find the strength to carry on, in the face of all the peculiar indignities of this world.
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Gravity's Rainbow and the secret integration.

I've read Gravity's Rainbow four times and thought I understood it pretty well. However, reading Beckett's Molloy/Malone Dies/The Unnameable trilogy and the Beckett biography Damned to Fame, and a lot of Jung, and going through some difficult times made me realise how much within me that I had previously repressed. The slow process of integrating everything I was in denial about has allowed me to find peace that I never thought I would attain, having been clinically depressed and suicidal for around ten years. I started reading GR again with this new understanding of myself and realised that I actually hadn't understood it properly at all. I thought I'd share a few things I realised in case they might be of interest to any of you. I will discuss the book from a psychoanalytical perspective and a political perspective here, but I do not wish to reduce what is such a brilliant novel in its own right to these elements alone; I feel like the literary perspective has been discussed far more than these aspects though, and strongly doubt I would be able to add anything new to that excellent body of existing work. Even though I have realised that the political and psychoanalytical aspects are examined and explored very overtly in GR, I think they are often underexamined because the readers themselves haven't come to terms with their own inner conflicts, and are therefore in denial about certain things in themselves, such as their own possible complicity (through inaction or otherwise) with the System - much like Pokler. Therefore I am only going to be discussing the book within the very narrow frameworks of psychoanalysis and politics, while acknowledging that this comprises only a fraction of what it really is.
The sheer density of GR can make it hard to tell what the hell is going on even just in terms of things like the plot. But maybe this isn't such a surprise, Pynchon's intelligence and education, how long he spent writing it, and and how much research he had to do in the process. It's only after doing a lot of the background reading that he refers to that things started to come together for me. With subjects such as Pavlov's theories of conditioning, statistics, physics, engineering, Pynchon reproduces key concepts within the text. For example:
Pavlov was fascinated with “ideas of the opposite.” Call it a cluster of cells, somewhere on the cortex of the brain. Helping to distinguish pleasure from pain, light from dark, dominance from submission... . But when, somehow—starve them, traumatize, shock, castrate them, send them over into one of the transmarginal phases, past borders of their waking selves, past “equivalent” and “paradoxical” phases —you weaken this idea of the opposite, and here all at once is the paranoid patient who would be master, yet now feels himself a slave... who would be loved, but suffers his world’s indifference, and, “I think,” Pavlov writing to Janet, “it is precisely the ultraparadoxical phase which is the base of the weakening of the idea of the opposite in our patients.” Our madmen, our paranoid, maniac, schizoid, morally imbecile—
However, for much of the history, particular that regarding intelligence agencies (whether that is WWII activity such as the O.S.S. or the S.O.E., or CIA activity in the 60s and 70s around the time that Pynchon was writing GR in a Californian beach house, very near where groups such as the Black Panthers were operating, targets of programs such as COINTELPRO and Operation CHAOS), the books had not even been written yet. I think the first few pages, with the carriage full of evacuees, can be interpreted as moving into the darkest parts of lost or repressed history, e.g.:
and it is poorer the deeper they go... ruinous secret cities of poor, places whose names he has never heard..
These names he has never heard could range from the Herero tribe whose genocide he discovered while writing V. ten years before, to Novi Pazar (with the Adenoid passage), to the all other hidden history in the book. I have also read people remarking on how in The Crying of Lot 49 it seems like Pynchon was somehow aware of MK-Ultra (which Dr Hilarius was involved with) before well the documents were leaked and the program confirmed. However, fortunately, many these history books have since been written. If anyone is interested, a great place to start is The Devil's Chessboard: Allen Dulles, the CIA, and the Rise of America's Secret Government, published in 2016, which follows Dulles from his time at the Wall Street law firm Sullivan and Cromwell to his time in the O.S.S. in Switzerland, working with Nazis in Operation Paperclip, to his directorship of the CIA through the 50s and 60s. Reading about this Cold War history, and also the writing of Huey Newton (who I strongly believe Enzian is in part based on), made a lot of GR far clearer. It is important to recognise that these histories of intelligence agencies contain irrefutable documented facts that the public at large is collectively in denial about - because they are too dark for them to acknowledge and face. For them to acknowledge these facts requires integrating that darkness into their conscious minds, before anything can be done about it on the political level. I think that, through the incorporation of all the world's darkness, from politics to history to sexual and paedophilic fantasies to etc..., this is the Secret Integration that Pynchon is trying to accomplish, and which concept he wrote a story about, published in Slow Learner. Reading this book causes the beginnings of this process, as all of the darkness is brought into one's mind by reading it.
Another crucial area for me was understanding a bit about Freud and Jung. Particularly Freud's tendency to project his own incredibly powerful repression onto his patients, because of his own compulsion to analyse and differentiate everything, much in the Western tradition, seen in, for example, his five stages of psychosexual development, oral, anal, phallic, latent and genital stages. Some people don't need to delve into the darkest aspects of their unconscious to find peace, but since Freud did, he felt the need to inflict this also on his patients - seen in the many cases where he would tell victims of childhood sexual abuse that it was due to their own subconscious desires to be raped, which could, obviously, do enormous damage to his patients. His compulsion to do this might have stemmed from, alongside his overanalytical compulsions, the truth that anything we are in denial of or repress causes inner conflicts that manifest in our daily lives, and the only way to get rid of them is to integrate them into the conscious mind. Jung's equivalent of this is his statement that “until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.” Jung's thinking on the unconscious, and particularly the notion of the collective unconscious - this idea that all the darkness in humanity is also within ourselves, and vice versa, much as in Daoism, another critical source for GR - is very useful to help understand the book.
An interesting thing to consider is that the old psychoanalytic approach, more directive/authoritarian (going back to Mesmer powerfully dominating his hypnotic subjects), where the analyst would attempt to integrate these repressions into the conscious mind of the patient by force, has fallen out of favour - it is now seen that the permissive style, in which the therapist tries to help the patient realise things themselves without use of force, is a much healthier approach for the average person (though there are still some cases where the directive style can be more effective). The former's effects can be seen in GR when, after many sessions with Freud, Greta's darkest parts of her unconscious mind rise up and she begins murdering children. Pynchon links Freud's repressions to trauma carried down by Jews from life under the Romans, and elsewhere, slavery under the Ancient Egyptians, which is fundamental to their religious texts (linked itself with attitudes and trauma in the black population about the more recent black slavery).
The trouble with Sigmund was the place he happened to be living in, a drafty, crenelated deformity overlooking a cold little lake in the Bavarian Alps. Parts of it must have dated back to the fall of Rome. That was where Sigmund brought her.
She had got the idea somewhere that she was part Jewish. Things in Germany by then, as everyone knows, were very bad. Margherita was terrified of being “found out.” She heard Gestapo in every puff of air that slipped in, among any of a thousand windways of dilapidation. Sigmund spent whole nights trying to talk it away. He was no better at it than Rollo. It was around this time that her symptoms began.
However psychogenic these pains, tics, hives and nauseas, her suffering was real. Acupuncturists came down by Zeppelin from Berlin, showing up in the middle of the night with little velvet cases full of gold needles. Viennese analysts, Indian holy men, Baptists from America trooped in and out of Sigmund’s castle, stage-hypnotists and Colombian curanderos slept on the rug in front of the fireplace. Nothing worked. Sigmund grew alarmed, and before long as ready as Margherita to hallucinate. Probably it was she who suggested Bad Karma. It had a reputation that summer for its mud, hot and greasy mud with traces of radium, jet black, softly bubbling. Ah. Anyone who’s been sick in that way can imagine her hope. That mud would cure anything. Where was anybody that summer before the War? Dreaming. The spas that summer, the summer Ensign Morituri came to Bad Karma, were crowded with sleepwalkers. Nothing for him to do at the Embassy. They suggested a holiday till September. He should have known something was up, but he only went on holiday to Bad Karma—spent the days drinking Pilsener Urquelle in the cafe by the lake in the Pavilion Park. He was a stranger, half the time drunk, silly beer-drunk, and he hardly spoke their language. But what he saw must have been going on all over Germany. A premeditated frenzy.
This is a similar process to what Slothrop goes through in the Abreaction Ward, when under sodium amytal ("truth serum") and the supervision of psychoanalysts, Slothrop explores the parts of his unconscious that he has repressed, including his feelings towards race and homosexuality.
PISCES: We want to talk some more about Boston today, Slothrop. You recall that we were talking last time about the Negroes, in Roxbury. Now we know it’s not all that comfortable for you, but do try, won’t you. Now—where are you, Slothrop? Can you see anything?
Slothrop: Well no, not see exactly...
By the presence of Red (Malcolm X) in the scene where Slothrop flees the black men at the jazz club trying to rape him down the toilet (which leads through a trip not only through Slothrop's own unconscious racism but also through the repressed histories, all the Preterite lost and forgotten.
Either he lets the harp go, his silver chances of song, or he has to follow. Follow? Red, the Negro shoeshine boy, waits by his dusty leather seat. The Negroes all over wasted Roxbury wait. Follow? “Cherokee” comes wailing up from the dance floor below, over the hi-hat, the string bass, the thousand sets of feet where moving rose lights suggest not pale Harvard boys and their dates, but a lotta dolled-up redskins. The song playing is one more lie about white crimes. But more musicians have floundered in the channel to “Cherokee” than have got through from end to end.
Here, among other things, if we consider Slothrop's mouth harp a (Rilke-referencing) metaphor, in part, for Pynchon's own tools of artistry, I feel like these floundering musicians can be seen as other writers who have not come to terms with the darkest parts of history, and thus their own unconscious. And the decision to delve into these things as an artist necessitates exposing one's own unconscious repressions, which causes you to be in a vulnerable position - particularly since They like to use these aspects of people to control them, as with Prentice and the drawing of the Scorpia Mossmoon lookalike he is given to activate the Kryptosam. In Pynchon's case, this means exposing his own racism and homophobia:
If Slothrop follows that harp down the toilet it’ll have to be headfirst, which is not so good, cause it leaves his ass up in the air helpless, and with Negroes around that’s just what a fella doesn’t want, his face down in some fetid unknown darkness and brown fingers, strong and sure, all at once undoing his belt, unbuttoning his fly, strong hands holding his legs apart—and he feels the cold Lysol air on his thighs as down come the boxer shorts too, now, with the colorful bass lures and trout flies on them. He struggles to work himself farther into the toilet hole as dimly, up through the smelly water, comes the sound of a whole dark gang of awful Negroes come yelling happily into the white men’s room, converging on poor wriggling Slothrop, jiving around the way they do singing, “Slip the talcum to me, Malcolm!” [*] And the voice that replies is who but that Red, the shoeshine boy who’s slicked up Slothrop’s black patents a dozen times down on his knees jes poppin’ dat rag to beat the band... now Red the very tall, skinny, extravagantly conked redhead Negro shoeshine boy who’s just been “Red” to all the Harvard fellas—“Say Red, any of those Sheiks in the drawer?” “How ’bout another luck-changin’ phone number there, Red?”—this Negro whose true name now halfway down the toilet comes at last to Slothrop’s hearing—as a thick finger with a gob of very slippery jelly or cream comes sliding down the crack now toward his asshole, chevroning the hairs along like topo lines up a river valley—the true name is Malcolm, and all the black cocks know him, Malcolm, have known him all along—Red Malcolm the Unthinkable Nihilist sez, “Good golly he sure is all asshole ain’t he?” Jeepers Slothrop, what a position for you to be in! Even though he has succeeded in getting far enough down now so that only his legs protrude and his buttocks heave and wallow just under the level of the water like pallid domes of ice. Water splashes, cold as the rain outside, up the walls of the white bowl. “Grab him ’fo’ he gits away!” “Yowzah!” Distant hands clutch after his calves and ankles, snap his garters and tug at the argyle sox Mom knitted for him to go to Harvard in, but these insulate so well, or he has progressed so far down the toilet by now, that he can hardly feel the hands at all...
GR can be seen even as a process of abreaction that Pynchon underwent. If the rumours that he used drugs through writing it are true, then that would mean exposing things in him unconscious even to himself while writing it. Worth at this point also to note Jung's criticisms of Freud's use of abreaction, and thus the possible dangers of doing this.
Though traumata of clearly aetiological significance were occasionally present, the majority of them appeared very improbable. Many traumata were so unimportant, even so normal, that they could be regarded at most as a pretext for the neurosis. But what especially aroused my criticism was the fact that not a few traumata were simply inventions of fantasy and had never happened at all.
However, as Daoism asserts, light and darkness is in everything. For the Pavlovian Pointsman, who views things in binary, this is impossible to accept - the idea that for between every extreme - like black and white - lies a spectrum, a continuous rainbow. As Western humans understand things through this differentiation and analysis, this continuity causes an inherent conflict. Pointsman, the pure cause-and-effect man, the "Antimexico" (since Mexico, the statistician who thinks all can be explained through independent variables and probability distributions, takes the opposite position), says this on Daoist thinking early on.
“Pierre Janet —sometimes the man talked like an Oriental mystic. He had no real grasp of the opposites. ‘The act of injuring and the act of being injured are joined in the behavior of the whole injury.’ Speaker and spoken-of, master and slave, virgin and seducer, each pair most conveniently coupled and inseparable—The last refuge of the incorrigibly lazy, Mexico, is just this sort of yang-yin rubbish.
But by the end of Beyond the Zero, he's having a breakdown, as his unconscious is trying to tell him the truth of the Daoist wisdom he was so quick to reject in his scientific arrogance.
“Talking to myself, here. Little—sort of—eccentricity, heh, heh.”
“Yang and Yin,” whispers the Voice, “Yang and Yin... .”
With all that out of the way, the plot of what GR is actually about can perhaps begin to be discussed. I'm going to make a lot of assumptions here that many of the male characters are based on Pynchon himself. You may disagree with this approach, which is very understandable, given my total lack of evidence. My justification for it is the following passages from Slothrop's trip down the toilet:
Here now is Crutchfield or Crouchfield, the westwardman. Not “archetypical” westwardman, but the only. Understand, there was only one. There was only one Indian who ever fought him. Only one fight, one victory, one loss. And only one president, and one assassin, and one election. True. One of each of everything. You had thought of solipsism, and imagined the structure to be populated—on your level—by only, terribly, one. No count on any other levels. But it proves to be not quite that lonely. Sparse, yes, but a good deal better than solitary. One of each of everything’s not so bad. Half an Ark’s better than none.
Then slightly later on:
Isn’t there supposed to be only one of each?
A. Yes.
Q. Then one Indian girl...
A. One pure Indian. One mestiza. One criolla. [*] Then: one Yaqui. One Navaho. One Apache—
Q. Wait a minute, there was only one Indian to begin with. The one that Crutchfield killed.
A. Yes. Look on it as an optimization problem. The country can best support only one of each.
Q. Then what about all the others? Boston. London. The ones who live in cities. Are those people real, or what?
A. Some are real, and some aren’t.
Q. Well are the real ones necessary? or unnecessary?
A. It depends what you have in mind.
Q. Shit, I don’t have anything in mind.
A. We do.
However, given the extent to which Pynchon has managed to keep his life quiet, I'm aware that this assumption could be projection from me. I think might be by design of the book though:
“Pre cise-ly why,” leaps Rozsavolgyi, “we are now proposing, to give, Slothrop a com plete- ly dif-ferent sort, of test. We are now de sign- ing for him, a so called, ‘projec-tive’ test. The most famil-iar exam- ple of the type, is the Rorschach ink-blot. The ba- sic theory, is that when given an un struc-tured stimulus, some shape-less blob of exper-ience, the subject, will seek to impose, struc- ture on it. How, he goes a -bout struc-turing this blob, will reflect his needs, his hopes—will pro vide, us with clues, to his dreams, fan- tasies , the deepest re-gions of his mind.”
With those disclaimers out the way, here's what I think. I think Mexico is the "cheap nihilist" of Pynchon as a younger man, before he's delved into his own darkness, and still very much without belief in any sort of spiritualism:
“It makes no sense unless we also consider those who’ve passed over to the other side. We do transact with them, don’t we? Through specialists like Eventyr and their controls over there. But all together we form a single subculture, a psychical community, if you will.”
“I won’t,” Mexico says dryly, “but yes I suppose someone ought to be looking into it.”
Pointsman is his analytical side, obsessed with cause-and-effect, which eventually, he comes to realise, necessitates delving in the darkest regions of Slothrop's mind, but still obsessed with control, never losing control:
Sign and symptoms. Was Spectro right? Could Outside and Inside be part of the same field? If only in fairness... in fairness... Pointsman ought to be seeking the answer at the interface... oughtn’t he... on the cortex of Lieutenant Slothrop. The man will suffer—perhaps, in some clinical way, be destroyed—but how many others tonight are suffering in his name? For pity’s sake, every day in Whitehall they’re weighing and taking risks that make his, in this, seem almost trivial. Almost. There’s something here, too transparent and swift to get a hold on—Psi Section might speak of ectoplasms—but he knows that the time has never been better, and that the exact experimental subject is in his hands. He must seize now, or be doomed to the same stone hallways, whose termination he knows. But he must remain open—even to the possibility that the Psi people are right. “We may all be right,” he puts in his journal tonight, “so may be all we have speculated, and more. Whatever we may find, there can be no doubt that he is, physiologically, historically, a monster. We must never lose control. The thought of him lost in the world of men, after the war, fills me with a deep dread I cannot extinguish...”
Prentice, the employee, the seasoned intelligence veteran, strikes me as a maturation from Pynchon's earlier Mexico phase, into a more realistic and experienced person and, by the time he gets into the Counterforce, "activist". This could be projection but given that the book was written from around the mid-60s until 1973, and how much changed in that time, I feel like this could be based on his own experiences with political activism in California around that time. Might be totally wrong about that, but I just got that impression from reading the weird "interview" towards the end of the book with the Wall Street Journal between the interviewer and the "spokesman for the Counterforce". Who knows, read it again and see what you think.
And Slothrop, the experimental subject, is a model of Pynchon himself, rather than a differentiated portion of his own psyche which he turned into a character.
So, what I think is going on:
PISCES is using Slothrop (conditioned by Jamf) to exploit the racism of the Germans in psychological warfare with the whole Schwarzkommando thing. Pointsman is following his own pathological drive to analyse every facet of Slothrop's psyche. This includes Bloat taking photographs of Slothrop's map of girls linked to rockets, which we find out later might partly be falsified, which I interpret perhaps as Pynchon's recognition of his own attempt to impose his sexual interpretation system onto the world at large - interestingly something touched on early on in Bleeding Edge, though I can't find the passage right now, he quietly references the sexual hysterias of youth or something like that.
Prentice is an employee of the Firm, a greater They than either PISCES or Pointsman, using his ability to have other people's fantasies, notionally for Pointsman, but really for some even grander scheme. This is reflected in the discussion of the message which Prentice picks up from the rocket which he and Slothrop see at the beginning of the book. From the Kryptosam message with the Scorpia lookalike:
Slowly then, a revelation through the nacreous film of his seed, in Negro-brown, comes his message: put in a simple Nihilist transposition whose keywords he can almost guess. Most of it he does in his head. There is a time given, a place, a request for help. He burns the message, fallen on him from higher than Earth’s atmosphere, salvaged from Earth’s prime meridian, keeps the picture, hmm, and washes his hands. His prostate is aching. There is more to this than he can see. He has no recourse, no appeal: he has to go over there and bring the operative out again. The message is tantamount to an order from the highest levels.
This "highest orders" thing can be compared with Slothrop seeing the hand of God pointing down at him.
There is in his history, and likely, God help him, in his dossier, a peculiar sensitivity to what is revealed in the sky. (But a hardon?) On the old schist of a tombstone in the Congregational churchyard back home in Mingeborough, Massachusetts, [*] the hand of God emerges from a cloud, the edges of the figure here and there eroded by 200 years of seasons’ fire and ice chisels at work, and the inscription reading:
In Memory of Constant
Slothrop, who died March
ye 4th 1766, in ye 29th
year of his age.
Death is a debt to nature due,
Which I have paid, and so must you.
...
6:43:16 BDST—in the sky right now here is the same unfolding, just about to break through, his face deepening with its light, everything about to rush away and he to lose himself, just as his countryside has ever proclaimed... slender church steeples poised up and down all these autumn hillsides, white rockets about to fire, only seconds of countdown away, rose windows taking in Sunday light, elevating and washing the faces above the pulpits defining grace, swearing this is how it does happen—yes the great bright hand reaching out of the cloud...
I think Pynchon recognised that with his unique abilities, perception, intelligence, and even privilege, it was his duty to delve into these hidden histories and play his role in bringing about this integration of the darkest levels of the unconscious. But Beyond the Zero is all about systems, and as Pynchon is well aware all systems are inherently limited because there are irrational elements in the world. So after this we have the briefer section in the Casino Hermann Goering, where the role of chance - or fate, depending on your interpretation - is recognised, and systems are examined, particularly language systems, like the drinking game Prince. So after that, with the third part, In the Zone, I think he may have been using drugs and various other techniques to bring out unconscious things in himself, to get past these conscious systems. And then completed with the Tarot reading performed at the end, where it says "here are the cards, exactly as they came up" - I think it's very possible that he did an actual Tarot reading at this point. Maybe I'm wrong about this though, I don't want to make too many assumptions given the lack of information we really have on him. If that thing with the drugs is true, it would explain that infamous quote Jules Seigal attributed to him, "I was so fucked up while I was writing it... that now I go back over some of those sequences and I can't figure out what I could have meant." But it's unclear whether that quote is real or not.
How does this play into politics? I've written far too much already, but I'll just leave things with a couple more quotes and the observation that the final part, the Counterforce, contains some very valid criticisms of the countercultural movement as it manifested in the 60s through 70s. There's this critical passage when Enzian is motorbiking around the Zone, high on Pervitins, and realises that everything has come together for this. There's definitely a sense that Pynchon is acknowledging here the importance of his work, the fact it has done things that no other book had before. But in it too there's also, in it, the mocking of the temptation to view everything as an ordered conspiracy, and not acknowledge the non-rational and non-causal forces also at work, and mocking of his own self-seriousness.
There doesn’t exactly dawn, no but there breaks, as that light you’re afraid will break some night at too deep an hour to explain away—there floods on Enzian what seems to him an extraordinary understanding. This serpentine slagheap he is just about to ride into now, this ex-refinery, Jamf Ölfabriken Werke AG, is not a ruin at all. It is in perfect working order. Only waiting for the right connections to be set up, to be switched on... modified, precisely, deliberately by bombing that was never hostile, but part of a plan both sides—”sides?” —had always agreed on... yes and now what if we—all right, say we are supposed to be the Kabbalists out here, say that’s our real Destiny, to be the scholar-magicians of the Zone, with somewhere in it a Text, to be picked to pieces, annotated, explicated, and masturbated till it’s all squeezed limp of its last drop... well we assumed—natürlich!—that this holy Text had to be the Rocket, orururumo orunene the high, rising, dead, the blazing, the great one (“orunene” is already being modified by the Zone-Herero children to “omunene,” the eldest brother)... our Torah. What else? Its symmetries, its latencies, the cuteness of it enchanted and seduced us while the real Text persisted, somewhere else, in its darkness, our darkness... even this far from Südwest we are not to be spared the ancient tragedy of lost messages, a curse that will never leave us... . But, if I’m riding through it, the Real Text, right now, if this is it... or if I passed it today somewhere in the devastation of Hamburg, breathing the ashdust, missing it completely... if what the IG built on this site were not at all the final shape of it, but only an arrangement of fetishes, come-ons to call down special tools in the form of 8th AF bombers yes the “Allied” planes all would have been, ultimately, IG-built, by way of Director Krupp, through his English interlocks—the bombing was the exact industrial process of conversion, each release of energy placed exactly in space and time, each shock-wave plotted in advance to bring precisely tonight’s wreck into being thus decoding the Text, thus coding, recoding, redecoding the holy Text... If it is in working order, what is it meant to do? The engineers who built it as a refinery never knew there were any further steps to be taken. Their design was “finalized,” and they could forget it. It means this War was never political at all, the politics was all theatre, all just to keep the people distracted... secretly, it was being dictated instead by the needs of technology... by a conspiracy between human beings and techniques, by something that needed the energy-burst of war, crying, “Money be damned, the very life of [insert name of Nation] is at stake,” but meaning, most likely, dawn is nearly here, I need my night’s blood, my funding, funding, ahh more, more... . The real crises were crises of allocation and priority, not among firms—it was only staged to look that way—but among the different Technologies, Plastics, Electronics, Aircraft, and their needs which are understood only by the ruling elite...
Yes but Technology only responds (how often this argument has been iterated, dogged and humorless as a Gaussian reduction, among the younger Schwarzkommando especially), “All very well to talk about having a monster by the tail, but do you think we’d’ve had the Rocket if someone, some specific somebody with a name and a penis hadn’t wanted to chuck a ton of Amatol 300 miles and blow up a block full of civilians? Go ahead, capitalize the T on technology, deify it if it’ll make you feel less responsible—but it puts you in with the neutered, brother, in with the eunuchs keeping the harem of our stolen Earth for the numb and joyless hardens of human sultans, human elite with no right at all to be where they are—”
We have to look for power sources here, and distribution networks we were never taught, routes of power our teachers never imagined, or were encouraged to avoid... we have to find meters whose scales are unknown in the world, draw our own schematics, getting feedback, making connections, reducing the error, trying to learn the real function... zeroing in on what incalculable plot?
Up here, on the surface, coaltars, hydrogenation, synthesis were always phony, dummy functions to hide the real, the planetary mission yes perhaps centuries in the unrolling... this ruinous plant, waiting for its Kabbalists and new alchemists to discover the Key, teach the mysteries to others...
And if it isn’t exactly Jamf Ölfabriken Werke? what if it’s the Krupp works in Essen, what if it’s Blohm & Voss right here in Hamburg or another make-believe “ruin,” in another city? Another country? YAAAGGGGHHHHH!
Well, this is stimulant talk here, yes Enzian’s been stuffing down Nazi surplus Pervitins these days like popcorn at the movies, and by now the bulk of the refinery—named, incidentally, for the famous discoverer of Oneirine—is behind them, and Enzian is on into some other paranoid terror, talking, talking, though each man’s wind and motor cuts him off from conversation.
Some words of wisdom from the seasoned veteran Prentice:
“You’re a novice paranoid, Roger,” first time Prentice has ever used his Christian name and it touches Roger enough to check his tirade. “Of course a well-developed They-system is necessary—but it’s only half the story. For every They there ought to be a We. In our case there is. Creative paranoia means developing at least as thorough a We-system as a They-system—”
“Wait, wait, first where’s the Haig and Haig, be a gracious host, second what is a ‘They-system,’ I don’t pull Chebychev’s Theorem on you, do I?”
“I mean what They and Their hired psychiatrists call ‘delusional systems.’
Needless to say, ‘delusions’ are always officially defined. We don’t have to worry about questions of real or unreal. They only talk out of expediency. It’s the system that matters. How the data arrange themselves inside it. Some are consistent, others fall apart. Your idea that Pointsman sent Gloaming takes a wrong fork. Without any contrary set of delusions—delusions about ourselves, which I’m calling a We-system—the Gloaming idea might have been all right—”
“Delusions about ourselves?”
“Not real ones.”
“But officially defined.”
“Out of expediency, yes.”
“Well, you’re playing Their game, then.”
“Don’t let it bother you. You’ll find you can operate quite well. Seeing as we haven’t won yet, it isn’t really much of a problem.”
Roger is totally confused.
And finally, amid all this darkness, in a superlatively dark book, some hope at last, to hold onto, that makes life worth living, and why I think that despite what many say, GR is not a nihilistic work at all (Tchitcherine, the born nihilist, is almost a parody of this position). It starts with Slothrop's awakening to nature:
Trees, now—Slothrop’s intensely alert to trees, finally. When he comes in among trees he will spend time touching them, studying them, sitting very quietly near them and understanding that each tree is a creature, carrying on its individual life, aware of what’s happening around it, not just some hunk of wood to be cut down. Slothrop’s family actually made its money killing trees, amputating them from their roots, chopping them up, grinding them to pulp, bleaching that to paper and getting paid for this with more paper. “That’s really insane.” He shakes his head. “There’s insanity in my family.” He looks up. The trees are still. They know he’s there. They probably also know what he’s thinking. “I’m sorry,” he tells them. “I can’t do anything about those people, they’re all out of my reach. What can I do?” A medium-size pine nearby nods its top and suggests, “Next time you come across a logging operation out here, find one of their tractors that isn’t being guarded, and take its oil filter with you. That’s what you can do.”
And then, after Slothrop's harp makes its trip down the toilet, and through all of the darkness of the book until that point, where does it next show up? After he draws a rocket mandala, scrawls Rocketman was here on a wall, after the sequence with the Magician using black magic and a mandrake to multiply money, and a delegate from the Committee on Idiopathic Archetypes shows up to visit:
Crosses, swastikas, Zone-mandalas, how can they not speak to Slothrop? He’s sat in Säure Bummer’s kitchen, the air streaming with kif moires, reading soup recipes and finding in every bone and cabbage leaf paraphrases of himself... news flashes, names of wheelhorses that will pay him off enough for a certain getaway... . He used to pick and shovel at the spring roads of Berkshire, April afternoons he’s lost, “Chapter 81 work,” they called it, following the scraper that clears the winter’s crystal attack-from-within, its white necropolizing... picking up rusted beer cans, rubbers yellow with preterite seed, Kleenex wadded to brain shapes hiding preterite snot, preterite tears, newspapers, broken glass, pieces of automobile, days when in superstition and fright he could make it all fit, seeing clearly in each an entry in a record, a history: his own, his winter’s, his country’s... instructing him, dunce and drifter, in ways deeper than he can explain, have been faces of children out the train windows, two bars of dance music somewhere, in some other street at night, needles and branches of a pine tree shaken clear and luminous against night clouds, one circuit diagram out of hundreds in a smudged yellowing sheaf, laughter out of a cornfield in the early morning as he was walking to school, the idling of a motorcycle at one duskheavy hour of the summer... and now, in the Zone, later in the day he became a crossroad, after a heavy rain he doesn’t recall, Slothrop sees a very thick rainbow here, a stout rainbow cock driven down out of pubic clouds into Earth, green wet valleyed Earth, and his chest fills and he stands crying, not a thing in his head, just feeling natural...
And later:
Slothrop moseys down the trail to a mountain stream where he’s left his harp to soak all night, wedged between a couple of rocks in a quiet pool. ... Through the flowing water, the holes of the old Hohner Slothrop found are warped one by one, squares being bent like notes, a visual blues being played by the clear stream.
There are harpmen and dulcimer players in all the rivers, wherever water moves. Like that Rilke prophesied,
And though Earthliness forget you,
To the stilled Earth say: I flow.
To the rushing water speak: I am.
It is still possible, even this far out of it, to find and make audible the spirits of lost harpmen. Whacking the water out of his harmonica, reeds singing against his leg, picking up the single blues at bar 1 of this morning’s segment, Slothrop, just suckin’ on his harp, is closer to being a spiritual medium than he’s been yet, and he doesn’t even know it.
There's hope after all, and I think it's reflected in how much more positive all his later works have been. Thanks so much for reading, I hope it was at least vaguely interesting, not too much of an unstructured ramble. Also, this is such a great subreddit, really I love the community here. My very best to you all!
submitted by pynchon_as_activist to ThomasPynchon [link] [comments]

Here are the achievements that unlock stuff.

Name Action Unlocks Job or Heist
$1.8M Speedrun In the Mallcrasher job, loot $1,800,000 in loose cash within 50 seconds of starting the heist on the OVERKILL difficulty "Scope Mount" and "PBS Suppressor" for the AK weapon family, "Alfred" mask, "Dawn" material and "Dinosaur Skull" pattern. Mall Crasher
1... 2... 3... JUMP! In the Birth of Sky job, have the entire crew jump out of the airplane within 1 minute and 23 seconds on the OVERKILL difficulty or above “Maui” mask, “Wade” material and “Ornamental Crown” pattern. Birth of Sky
12 Angry Minutes In the Big Bank job, complete the heist in under 12 minutes on the Hard difficulty or above Wooden Foregrip for the Falcon rifle. The Big Bank
A Taste of Their Own Medicine Kill 25 Snipers using only the Rattlesnake sniper rifle Tactical Aluminium Body for the Rattlesnake sniper rifle.
Arachne’s Curse Perform 100 headshot kills using any sniper rifle “Tarantula” mask, “Insectoid” material and “Spider Eyes” pattern.
Army of One Equip the GL40 grenade launcher, the Locomotive 12G shotgun and the Improved Combined Tactical Vest CQB Foregrip and Plastic Stock for the Gecko 7.62 rifle.
Artillery Barrage Kill 25 enemies at 40 meters or more using only the GL40 grenade launcher Wooden Stock for the Gecko 7.62 rifle, Pirate Barrel for the GL40 grenade launcher, “Bone” material and “Muerte” pattern.
BAAaa...BANG...aaAAH In the Goat Simulator heist, throw a goat in the air, kill one enemy and catch the goat before it lands "Wet Goat" mask, "Hay" material and "Goat Face" pattern. Goat Simulator
Backing Bobblehead Bob Bring Bobblehead Bob to the vault “The 18th” mask, the "Gemstone" material, the "God of War" pattern and the Wooden Stock for the Falcon rifle. The Big Bank
Bang for the Buck Kill 10 Bulldozers using any shotgun and 000 buckshot ammo Long Barrel for the Street Sweeper shotgun, "Steven" mask, "Sparks" material and "Chief" pattern.
Beaver Team In the Bomb: Forest heist, cut down all trees within 5 seconds "Butcher From Hell" mask, "Meat" material and "Pleter" pattern. Bomb: Forest
Big Bada Boom Kill at least four enemies with one GL40 grenade launcher shot Sawed-off Stock for the GL40 grenade launcher and the “Crow Goblin” mask.
Black Knight Kill a black Bulldozer with the Great Sword melee weapon "Mason Vanguard Veteran" mask, "Forged" material and "Checkered Out" pattern.
Blind Eye in the Sky Complete the Golden Grin Casino heist in stealth "Wheeler Dealer" mask, "Stars" material and "Chips" pattern. Golden Grin Casino
Breaking Dead In the Bomb: Dockyard heist, find the meth lab "Extended Mag" for the LEO pistol. Bomb: Dockyard
Bullet Hell Kill 10 enemies within 10 seconds using the Buzzsaw 42 light machine gun Old Blood and Guts mask, Light Barrel for the Buzzsaw 42 light machine gun, "Patriot" material and "Captain War" pattern.
Bunnyhopping Jump 100 times within 30 seconds "No Me Gusta" mask.
Cancelling Santa's Christmas Complete the White Xmas job on the Very Hard difficulty or above "Krampus" mask. White Xmas
Cat Burglar In the Diamond job, complete the heist without triggering the alarm Unlocks "The Cursed One" mask, "Sand" material and "Hieroglyphs" pattern. The Diamond
City of Sin and Well-Oiled Gears Complete the Golden Grin Casino heist without having the Big Fucking Drill ever break in loud "Murmillo Galea Helmet" mask, "Casino" material and "Royale" pattern. Golden Grin Casino
Claustrophobia Complete the White Xmas job on the OVERKILL difficulty or above "Mechanical Santa" mask. White Xmas
Clay Pigeon Shooting Kill 10 snipers using any shotgun and flechette ammo Long Barrel for the Raven shotgun, "Clint" mask, "Leaf" material and "Monkey Skull" pattern.
Clean House In the Beneath the Mountain job, secure all of the loot from the vaults and mountain-top in the escape helicopter “Tawhiri” mask, “Flow” material and “Sun Avatar” pattern. Beneath the Mountain
Crazy Ivan Complete the Boiling Point job having everyone only using melee weapons without electricity or poison to kill enemies on the Very Hard difficulty or above "Safety First" mask, "Planet" material and "Phoenix" pattern. Boiling Point
Crouched and Hidden, Flying Dagger Kill 8 guards with the Throwing Knife while crouching on the Murky Station job The heist must be finished for any kills to count. "Hotelier" mask, "Club Lights" material and "Piety" pattern. Murky Station
Culture Vultures In the Diamond job, secure 10 bags of additional loot "Medusa" mask, "Rusting Metal" material and "Runes" pattern. The Diamond
Cutting the Red Wire Disarm the C4 on the Counterfeit job on the OVERKILL difficulty or above "Dragon Head" mask, "Days" material and "Kurbits" pattern. Counterfeit
Death From Below Kill 25 enemies as they rappel using the Nagant sniper rifle Constable mask, the Silenced Barrel and the Long Barrel for the Nagant sniper rifle, “Gunsmoke” material and “Dazzle” pattern.
Diamonds in the Rough In the Diamond job, complete the heist, diamond puzzle and steal the Diamond after the alarm has been triggered on OVERKILL difficulty or above "Anubis" mask, "Mummy Bandages" material and "Hawk Helm" pattern. The Diamond
Didn’t See That Coming Did You? Kill 10 enemies using any sniper rifle while zip lining Theia Magnified Scope for all sniper rifles.
Disco Inferno Have 10 enemies burning simultaneously "Graug" mask, "Coal" material and "Fireborn" pattern.
Do You Like Hurting Other People? In the Hotline Miami job, kill 30 thugs with the Baseball Bat Dennis mask, Solid Stock for the Uzi submachine gun, Wooden Grip for the Cobra submachine gun, "Rubber" material and "Hip to Be Polygon" pattern. Hotline Miami
Dodge This Perform 10 headshot kills on Cloakers using only the Thanatos .50 cal sniper rifle Suppressed Barrel for the Thanatos .50 cal sniper rifle.
Don't Bring the Heat In the Big Bank job, complete the heist without triggering the alarm CQB Stock for the Falcon rifle. The Big Bank
Done in 60 Seconds In the Bomb: Dockyard heist, open the dock gate in 60 seconds using the keycards "Custom Slide" for the LEO pistol. Bomb: Dockyard
Double Kill Kill 2 enemies with one bullet 25 times using only the Rattlesnake sniper rifle Sniper Suppressor for the Rattlesnake sniper rifle.
Dr. Evil Print and secure $1,000,000 worth of counterfeit money in the Helicopter on the Counterfeit job "Viking" mask, "Houndstooth" material and "Fenris" pattern. Counterfeit
Entrapment In the Big Bank job, complete the heist with 12 bags in the default escape with all the lasers active CQB Foregrip for the Falcon rifle. The Big Bank
Euro Bag Simulator Complete the Santa’s Workshop job after having secured at least 100 bags in the chimney on the OVERKILL difficulty or above “Rudolph” mask. Santa’s Workshop
Even Steven In the Alesso heist job, get your seven bucks back "Cantus" mask, "Bionic" material and "Circle Raster" pattern. The Alesso Heist
Everyday I’m Shovelin' On the Night Club heist, kill 25 law enforcers using your shovel Short Barrel for the Raven shotgun. Night Club
Eye for an Eye In the second day of The Biker Heist job, destroy the helicopter turret "Road Rage" mask, "Chromey" material and "Biker Face" pattern. The Biker Heist
Far, Far Away Kill 25 enemies from 40 meters using only the Thanatos .50 cal sniper rifle Tank Buster Barrel for the Thanatos .50 cal sniper rifle.
Farmer Miserable In the second day of the Goat Simulator heist, send all goats in separate cages on the OVERKILL difficulty or above "Slick Goat" mask, "Tongue" material and "Fur" pattern. Goat Simulator
Fastest Gun in the West Kill 6 law enforcers within 6 seconds of killing the first while hipfiring with the Peacemaker .45 Revolver "Apache Mystic" mask, "Gold Fever" material and "Sacred" pattern.
For Daisy Finish the Firestarter job on the OVERKILL difficulty or above with your crew using only the Contractor Pistol "Daisy" mask, "Dog Fur" material and "Daisies" pattern. Firestarter
Fuck It, We're Walking In the Alesso Heist job, complete the heist in loud without using the zip-line or bag chutes on the OVERKILL difficulty or above "Female Concert Goer" mask, "Stained Glass" material and "Soundwave" pattern. The Alesso Heist
Fugu Fighter Have at least 3 enemies poisoned at the same time with your poisoned weapons "Shirai" mask, "Origami" material and "Hanabi" pattern.
Full Throttle Complete the second day of The Biker Heist job within 120 seconds on the OVERKILL difficulty or above "Speed Devil" mask, "Devil Eye" material and "Skull Wing" pattern. The Biker Heist
Funding Father In the Big Bank job, complete the heist while you and your four man crew are wearing one different "Big Bank" mask each Marksman Stock for the Falcon rifle. The Big Bank
Ghost Run Complete the Murky Station job within 7 minutes of starting it "Cloaker-san" mask, "Rusty" material and "Rebel" pattern. Murky Station
Goat In 60 Seconds In the first day of the Goat Simulator heist, secure 6 goats in the escape truck within 1 minute of it arriving "Scout Goat" mask, "Goat Eye" material and "Giraffe" pattern. Goat Simulator
Gone in 240 Seconds In the Car Shop job, complete the heist within 4 minutes "The Tids" mask. Car Shop
Hail to the King, Baby In the Golden Grin Casino heist, kill "The King" and complete the heist in stealth "Sports Utility Mask" mask, "Carpet" material and "Dices" pattern. Golden Grin Casino
Hammertime Kill 25 thugs using the Ding Dong breaching tool melee weapon “Frost” material and “Emperor” pattern.
Hazzard County Complete the second day of the Goat Simulator heist within 4 minutes from when the escape car is available "Goat Goat" mask, "Flamingo Eye" material and "Illumigoati" pattern. Goat Simulator
Hedgehog Get 10 or more arrows stuck in a Bulldozer at the same time "Lone Heister" mask, "Scorpion" material and "Totem" pattern.
Heisters of the Round Table Complete any heist on the OVERKILL difficulty or above with 4 players using only Gage Chivalry Pack masks, primary weapons, melee weapons and Ballistic Vests or heavier armors "Agatha Knight Veteran" mask, "Blooded" material and "Agatha" pattern.
Here Comes the Pain Train In the Firestarter job, complete the heist on OVERKILL difficulty or above, with all days done in loud and with a crew of 4 players using unmodified "AK Rifle" rifles and "PARA" submachine guns "DMR Kit AK.762" and the "Low Drag Magazine" for the AK weapon family, "Timothy" mask, "Prehistoric" material and "Dinosaur Stripes" pattern. Firestarter
Hey Mr. DJ In the Nightclub job, have 12 hostages or more on the dance floor when you escape "Aluminum Grip" for the AK weapon family, the "Aluminum Foregrip" for the Krinkov submachine gun and the "LW Upper Receiver" for the CAR weapon family. Night Club
High Roller Complete the Golden Grin Casino heist under 14 minutes "The King" mask, "Plush" material and "Cards" pattern. Golden Grin Casino
I Never Asked for This Don't jump a single time during an entire heist "Rageface" mask.
I Want to Get Away Jump "Funnyman" mask.
I Will Walk Faceless Among Men In the Shadow Raid job, secure all 4 pieces of the samurai armor “Somen Mempo” mask. Shadow Raid
I've Got the Power In the Bomb: Dockyard heist, don't let the enemies cut the power "Long Slide" for the LEO pistol. Bomb: Dockyard
It Takes a Pig to Kill a Pig Drop Floyd the pig on top of a lawforcer “The 1st” mask, the "Exhausted" material, the "Ruler" pattern and the Extended Magazine for the Falcon rifle. The Big Bank
It Takes Two to Tango Hack the correct computer on the first try in The Big Bank job “The First American” mask, the "Parchment" material, the "Roman" pattern and the Tactical Grip for the Falcon rifle. The Big Bank
Jump! Jump! Jump! Finish a heist without it ever going more than 4 seconds between you jumping "Dawg" mask.
Keep Clear of the Windows Complete the Undercover job without killing any Snipers "Hans" mask, "Red Black" material and "Luse" pattern. Undercover
Knock, Knock Kill 50 Shields using any shotgun and slug ammo Collapsed Stock for the M1014 shotgun.
Knockout! Knock out a Bulldozer using the OVERKILL boxing gloves Unlocks "The Champ" mask.
Last Action Villain Perform a headshot kill on enemies using only the R93 sniper rifle while zip lining Compensated Suppressor for the R93 sniper rifle.
Let the Man Work In the first day of The Biker Heist job, let Mike the mechanic finish the bike without any interruptions on the OVERKILL difficulty or above "The Classic mask", "Hotrod" material and "Engine" Pattern. The Biker Heist
Lock, Stock & Eight Smoking Barrels Own the Locomotive, Street Sweeper, Reinfeld, Mosconi, Izhma, Raven and M1014 Shotguns Flip-up Sight for the Raven shotgun.
Lord of the Flies Perform 50 headshot kills using any sniper rifle “Asilidae” mask, “Carapace” material and “Bugger” pattern.
M.F. Stev In the Alesso Heist job, complete the pyro sequences without failing even once "Male Concert Goer" mask, "Dim Blue" material and "Smoke" pattern. The Alesso Heist
Maximum Penetration Kill 10 Shields by shooting through their shields using only the R93 sniper rifle Short Barrel for the R93 sniper rifle.
Names Are for Friends, so I Don't Need One Get eleven kills with the Lebensauger .308 Sniper Rifle without reloading it "Slicer" mask, "Still Waters" material and "Youkai" pattern.
No Blood on the Carpet In the Birth of Sky job, release the money without having any player take health damage on the OVERKILL difficulty or above “Oro” mask, “Glade” material and “Tribal Wave” pattern. Birth of Sky
No Heist for Old Men Complete any day of a heist in stealth with a Locomotive 12G shotgun modified with the "Silent Killer Suppressor" equipped Suppressed Barrel for the Street Sweeper shotgun, "Rutger" mask, "Banana Peel" material and "Banana" pattern.
No Scope Kill 10 enemies in a row by shooting them in the head with the Platypus 70 Sniper Rifle while not aiming down the sights “Tane” mask, “Sancti” material and “Tribal Face” pattern.
Not Invited Kill 10 enemies within 10 seconds using the Piglet Grenade Launcher without using Incendiary rounds "Firefighter's Helmet" mask, "Burn" material and "Flamer" pattern.
Not Today Kill a jumping Cloaker using the GL40 grenade launcher Wooden Stock, Retro Grip and Wooden Foregrip for the Gewehr 3 rifle.
Nothing Personal Kill 30 snipers with the Desertfox Sniper Rifle on the OVERKILL difficulty or above "Mustang" mask, "Tire" material and "One Shot" pattern.
Oppressor Finish the Bomb: Forest heist without letting any civilian flee or die, having at least five civilians in the heist, while escaping with the boat Unlocks "The Doctor" mask, "Plywood" material and "Caduceus" pattern. Bomb: Forest
OVE SAW 72000 In the Nightclub job, complete the heist on any difficulty with each crew member using the OVE 9000 saw as primary and secondary weapons "THRUST Upper Receiver", "THRUST Lower Receiver" and "Long Ergo Foregrip" for the CAR weapon family. Night Club
Overdose Cook and secure six bags of meth on day one of the Hotline Miami job Graham mask, Ghetto Blaster, Extended Mag and Just Bend It for the Blaster 9mm submachine gun, "Error" material and "Be Somebody" pattern. Hotline Miami
OVERGRILL Set a Bulldozer on fire for at least 10 seconds "The Chef" mask, "Toast" material and "Hot Flames" pattern.
Pest Control Perform 250 headshot kills using any sniper rifle “Vespula” mask, “Bug Shell” material and “Venomous” pattern.
Phew! On day two of the Hotline Miami job, save someone in need Aubrey mask, Ergo Grip, Extended Mag and Unfolded Stock for the Cobra submachine gun, "Sunset" material and "Doodles" pattern. Hotline Miami
Precision Aiming Kill 25 Bulldozers using the Gewehr 3 Rifle Sniper Barrel for the Clarion rifle, Sniper Stock, Sniper Grip and Sniper Foregrip for the Gecko 7.62 rifle, Precision Stock, Precision Grip and the DMR Kit for the Gewehr 3 rifle as well as the “Black Death” mask.
Private Party In the Jewelry store job, don't let the cops enter the jewelry store until the van comes back on OVERKILL difficulty or above "DMR Kit AMR-16" and the "L5 Magazine" for the CAR weapon family, "Vincent" mask, "Feathers" material and "Dinosaur Scars" pattern. Jewelry Store
Public Enemy No. 1 Kill 250 enemies using only the Rattlesnake sniper rifle Long Barrel for the Rattlesnake sniper rifle.
Pump It Up In the Bomb: Forest heist, do not let the cops disconnect the water hose while you are using the river water pump "Tech Lion" mask, "Marble Rock" material and "Lion Game Lion" pattern. Bomb: Forest
Pumped Up and Jolly Complete the Santa’s Workshop job having all players in the crew only use shotguns “Christmas Cap” mask. Santa’s Workshop
Rabbit Hunting Kill 10 Cloakers using the Gecko 7.62 rifle Skeletal Stock, Fabulous Stock and Fabulous Foregrip for the Gecko 7.62 rifle as well as the “Volt” mask.
Recycling Pick up 100 arrows "Desert Skull" mask, "Western Sunset" material and "Mystical" pattern.
Riders On the Snowstorm In the White Xmas job, complete the heist on the Death Wish difficulty or above while each crew member wear a different "2014 Xmas" mask each "Almir's Beard" mask. White Xmas
Scavenger In the first day of The Biker Heist job, find the secret item "Flaming Skull" mask, "Shiny and Chrome" material and "Fire Tire" pattern. The Biker Heist
Seer of Death Perform 500 headshot kills using any sniper rifle “Sphodromantis” mask, “Hard Shell” material and “Wings of Death” pattern.
Seven Eleven Get 7 enemy headshot kills within 11 seconds using any shotgun Short Barrel for the M1014 shotgun, “John” mask, “Explosive” material and “Terror” pattern.
Shock and Awe Hit 4 enemies simultaneously using any shotgun and HE rounds Solid Stock for the M1014 shotgun.
Shotgun 101 Complete any heist by killing at least 50 enemies and getting 101% accuracy or above using any shotgun Long Barrel for the M1014 shotgun.
Shuriken Shenanigans Complete a single day of a heist in stealth using only the Shuriken throwable and killing at least 4 enemies "Kuro Zukin" mask, "Bamboo" material and "Koi" pattern.
Skewer Kill a Cloaker with the Javelin throwable "Mason Knight Veteran" mask, "Scale Armor" material and "Mason" pattern.
Skill Shot In the Lab Rats job, secure a bag in the secret area "Invader" mask. Lab Rats
Smoke and Mirrors In the Diamond job, steal the Diamond in under 10 minutes "Pazuzu" mask, "Diamond" material and "Horus" pattern. The Diamond
Sneaking With the Fishes Complete the Bomb: Dockyard heist in stealth on the Death Wish difficulty "Lady Butcher" mask, "Rhino" material and "Checker Board" pattern. Bomb: Dockyard
So Many Choices Own one of every Gage Assault Pack weapon in the game Short Barrel for the Clarion rifle, Light Stock for the Gecko 7.62 rifle, Plastic Foregrip and Assault Kit for the Gewehr 3 rifle, “Evil” material and “Vicious” pattern.
So Uncivilized Equip a Broomstick pistol with the Damper.L 44 Nozzle and the Barrel Sight 44 British Bulldog mask, High Capacity Mag and Holster Stock for the Broomstick pistol, "Army Green" material and "Filthy Thirteen" pattern.
Sound of Silence Complete the Alesso Heist without your crew killing anyone "Boom Box" mask, "Enlightenment" material and "Alesso Logo" pattern. The Alesso Heist
Sounds of Animals Fighting In the Hotline Miami job, complete the heist while you and your four man crew are wearing one different Hotline Miami mask each on hard or above Silent Death and Folded Stock for the Uzi submachine gun, Suppressor and No Stock for the Cobra submachine gun and Short Barrel for the Blaster 9mm submachine gun. Hotline Miami
Special Operations Execution Kill 25 enemies while in stealth using the Trench knife Red Bear mask, Short Barrel, Suppressed Barrel, Short Mag, Folded Stock, No Stock, Solid Stock, Heatsinked Suppressed Barrel for the Patchett L2A1 submachine gun, Barrel Sight 44, Damper.L 44 Nozzle for the Broomstick pistol, “Red Sun” material and “Death Dealer” pattern.
Stealing Christmas Complete the White Xmas job on the Hard difficulty or above "Strinch" mask. White Xmas
Stick a Fork in Me, I'm Done Set an enemy on fire and kill him with the "Motherforker" melee weapon "The Gas Mask" mask, "Candlelight" material and "Flammable" pattern.
Surprise Motherfucker Kill 10 Bulldozers using only the Thanatos .50 cal sniper rifle CQB Barrel for the Thanatos .50 cal sniper rifle.
Sweet Sixteen Complete The Big Bank job with 16 secured bags “The 16th” mask, the "Clay" material, the "Spartan" pattern and the Marksman Foregrip for the Falcon rifle. The Big Bank
Swiss Cheese Kill 100 enemies in a single day of a heist with the Kross Vertex Submachine Gun "Kage" mask, "Sakura" material and "Oni" pattern.
Tabula Rasa In the Hoxton Breakout job, complete the heist on OVERKILL difficulty or above with each crew member using no skills, wearing suits, wielding Golden AK.762 rifles and Chicago Typewriter submachine guns Unlocks a new skill slot. Hoxton Breakout
The Collector Kill 100 cops using only weapons from the AK or CAR weapon families "Keymod Rail", the "Crabs Rail" and the "Modern Barrel" for the AK weapon family.
The Ground Is Too Cold In the Boiling Point job, have no crew members get downed on the OVERKILL difficulty or above "Zero 68" mask, "Nebula" material and "Hexagons" pattern. Boiling Point
The Nobel Prize Kill 3 enemies at the same time with the Dynamite "Wild West Classic" mask, "Cactus" material and "Coyote" pattern.
The Pacifist Complete the Murky Station job without anyone in the crew killing anyone "Augmentation" mask, "Spaceship" material and "Squares" pattern. Murky Station
The Saviour On the Undercover job, place 10 planks on windows, vents or fences "Trickster Demon" mask, "Mushroom Cloud" material and "Split" pattern. Undercover
The Turtle Always Wins In the Art Gallery job, complete the heist in stealth within 4 minutes with each crew member wearing the Improved Combined Tactical Vest and no Armor Kit deployable equipped "Classic Stock" for the AK weapon family, "2 Piece Stock" for the AK and CAR weapon families, "Pachy" mask, "Fossil" material and "Prehistoric Predator" pattern. Art Gallery
The Wolf Lures You to Your Grave In the Art Gallery job, kill two of the patrolling guards in stealth in the bathroom "E.M.O. Foregrip" and the "OVAL Foregrip" for the CAR weapon family and the "Aftermarket Shorty" for the PARA submachine gun. Art Gallery
Their Armor Is Thick and Their Shields Broad Kill 10 shields with a Gage Chivalry Pack melee weapon in a single heist "Agatha Vanguard Veteran" mask, "Chain Armor" material and "Medieval" pattern.
They Don’t Pay Us Enough In the Meltdown job, secure all additional loot "Rad Mutant" mask. Meltdown
Tour de Clarion Kill 200 enemies using the Clarion rifle Suppressed Barrel and G2 Grip for the Clarion rifle as well as the “Professor Wrath” mask.
Trick or Treat! In the Lab Rats job, complete the Cloaker event on OVERKILL difficulty or above "Satan" mask. Lab Rats
Triple Kill Kill 3 enemies with one bullet using any sniper rifle Angled sight for all sniper rifles.
UMP for Me, UMP for You Kill 45 Russian specials on the Boiling Point job with the Jackal Submachine Gun on the OVERKILL difficulty or above "Zashchita" mask, "Mist" material and "Battle Wounds" pattern. Boiling Point
Unusual Suspects In the Watchdogs job, complete the heist while you and your four man crew are wearing one different Assault Pack mask each on OVERKILL difficulty or above Light Foregrip for the Gecko 7.62 rifle, Tactical Foregrip for the Gewehr 3 rifle, Long Barrel for the Clarion rifle, “Void” material and “Death” pattern. Watchdogs
Vlad's Little Helpers Complete the White Xmas job on the Normal difficulty or above "Mrs. Claus" mask. White Xmas
Walk Faster In day two of the Hotline Miami job, reach the Commissar’s apartment in under 210 seconds on the OVERKILL difficulty or above Rasmus mask, Tactical Foregrip and the Ergonomic Stock for the Uzi submachine gun, “Chromescape” material and "Palmtrees" pattern. Hotline Miami
Why Don’t We Just Use a Spoon? Complete the Hoxton Breakout heist on any difficulty Unlocks "Hoxton" as a playable character and the "Nova's Shank" melee weapon. Hoxton Breakout
Wind of Change In the Hoxton Breakout job, complete the heist while you and your four man crew are wearing one different "Historical" mask each on OVERKILL difficulty or above Discrete Stock and Short Barrel for the Nagant sniper rifle, Precision Barrel for the Broomstick pistol, Extended Mag and Long Barrel for the Patchett L2A1 submachine gun and the Heatsinked Suppressed Barrel for the Buzzsaw 42 light machine gun. Hoxton Breakout
You Can’t Hide Kill 25 enemies shooting through walls or objects using only the R93 sniper rifle Wooden Body for the R93 sniper rifle.
You Owe Me One In the Big Bank job, start the Big Bank job after having spent all 10 favors in Preplanning Retro Foregrip for the Falcon rifle. The Big Bank
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