ENG 318 Pynchon Imitation
Babette thought briefly of her father’s collection of belt buckles, pictured for some reason a bird she had seen once during childhood, shifted her son’s weight against her side, and crossed into the maze of parked cars before her. The details of her vehicle’s physical appearance returned to her along with an acute awareness that her death was inevitable and forthcoming. “Drat,” she said, opening the car door. “Noodle,” said Wilder.
At home, the dizzying buzz of family life began to generate in full as various members of the household returned from their respective schools and made circuitous trips from the living room, bathroom, and kitchen to whatever other point on the domestic map now marked their destination. Bodies seemed to attain new levels of energy from travelling these routes, except for her’s, Babette’s, which she supposed must have been the magnetic core, the mother, around whom the copper wire of her children and husband necessarily coiled. She leafed through a pile of mail that had been deposited on the counter. Wilder, now freed from her embrace, stood at her side clawing her pant leg and speaking the indecipherable language of his still infantile need, oblivious as he was to her own maternal desires, whatever they were.
I don’t really know what the word ‘love’ means, except duty, obligation, sentimentality, fear.
—My Dinner with Andre