Pynchon's colossal first novel is a vast array of metaphoric dimensions. The quest for V takes on various meanings operating on different levels of consciouness, social strata and commentary, archtypal memory of mythic scope, and subconscious enlightened paranaoia. Pynchon's stream-of-consciousness writing marks a very dense but liquid composition.
Dealing with the various absurdities of life Benny Profane the initial character goes thru post war wayward derelict adventures with a bunch of misfits - the sick crew. From there on the novel takes on multiple personalities, viewpoints being passed around like a hot potato on onion skinned palms. Ending up mostly in Stencil's (Benny's friend) convoluted mysterious filial past, searching for his father's woman V who wrecked a series incalculable effects on pre and post world war 2 pandemonia. You'll sometimes get lost in the multiplicity of characters, but the narrative energy carries you thru with magnanimous ambivalence and resonance.
The question of V is compounded with a multiplicity of meanings, Veronica, Vheissu, Valleta, Victoria ...Vater(father), a romance with Malta and Valleta, a city of inanimate and animate animosity, darkly pervading, a terrible reality of love lost in absurdity and existential angst... A sample passage in V:
" Were there in her the same memories of azaleas, or any sense that this city is a mockery, a promise always unfulfilled? Did we share anything? The deeper we sank into twilight, the less i knew. I did - so I argued - loved this woman with all there was in me to expadite, or make secure any love: but here it was love in a growing dark: giving out with no clear knowledge of how much was being lost, how much would ever be returned. Was she even seeing the same pavillion? Hearing the same children at the frontiers of our park: was she here in fact or like Paola - dear God, not even our child but Valleta's - out alone, vibrating like a shadow in some street where the light is too clear, the horizon too sharp to be anything but a street created out of the sickness of the past, for the Malta that was and can never be again ! "
Always prevalent in the tale was the question of animateness and inanimateness. 20th century existential thought unquestionably suffuses the novel. It's Pynchon's equivalence of Sartre's 'for-itself' and 'in-itself' respectively, the benevolent 'nothing' and the cruel 'thing'- being and nothingness; in which people turn in to things and things and places are more alive than people. A changing of the guards that consumates the present century's alienation with itself.
Absolutely, one staggerring monument of dense moral and absurd parables, endlessly armed with symbolic philter to 'poison' the imagination to burst and wax brightly and darkly, a decadence of pure fury, a mirror of our times and sometimes convoluted minds. Simply awesome.