Gillian Flynn versus Thomas Pynchon

   It was 1922-the dualism of literary epics spawned.  James Joyce, drunk as an Irish-Cowboy Skunk, strolling down the dirtway with a MonteCristo aflame in smackalicious lips, knowing:  This is the superlative book in the English language, and its name is--Ulysses.  Still, though transcending the purity of poetry concerning T.S. Eliot's Waste Land, also forged publicly in 1922, the difference between 30 pages and 300 protracted  pages all determines on how you view the Django Unchained of Ulysses.

   Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl proves to punch out the sublime hysteria of Thomas Pynchon poised with counterpoise, offering Buddha's Best Fantastic; alas, we need to get serious.

   During normal days, contemplating the ambiguous words of Pynchon, though Gillian Flynn like a surgiucal knife, sincerely cutting away the fat of the lamb.  I like it.  Never had symmetrical foundation before, a run-on sentence, running-on and on, crafting cause for criticism, knowing Internet Eyes are  spying on you.

   Pynchon will always remain unclear and effulgent by the blinding radiance of poetry gods; still, Flynn offers the supermundane aspects of modernisn, meaning:  The casual killer remains un-outshined!  Story trumps the English Language.  Lord Bertrand Russell, beyond the control of linguistic axioms offering:  Common Sense does eclipse the Queen's Brit--her English Chords formed like F. Scott Fitzgerald being the perfect pussy, penning to the control of script, offering the most sane of manuscripts, though enchanting with the bliss of utopian suburbia.

   Gillian Flynn writes like a genius.  James Joyce proclaimed:  "Genius makes no mistakes!"

   And to hope for the sancutary of mercy--the evil undead and magnanimous living, hoping for fuel to the next life, a transmigration of dreams and desires, us them, illumintaed by way of our faith and hope.  Pynchon is the serious read, head crooked and intent upon unearthing the heated desire of personal passions.  I just really, really like Gillian Flynn's Books.  Better than anything written today, sculpted by a lady's hand . . .

   How was the THIRD Hangover  movie?  I was thinking about buying a Sugar Glider for my Wheaton Terrier to play with--nicely.  And I thought nobody could stun Pynchon, but Flynn with a Better-Than-Scooby-Mystery, NICE. 

   Mark David King