I was in my local coffee shop this morning, and the man I think of as The Novel Reader was sitting there as usual with a big fat book in his hands. It was Thomas Pynchon’s V. I know Novel Reader doesn’t generally go in for small talk, but on this occasion I couldn’t help remarking: “Starting over, are we?"—V being Pynchon’s first, published in 1963. My companion said that while reading Shadow Ticket (2025) he’d been struck by the many resonances between it and V. So now I feel I need to go back and re-read both works. The burdens of literacy. (Actually, it will likely be a while before I get back to reading Pynchon, as my wife has told me I absolutely must read Elena Ferrante—not a project for the faint of heart.)