the smell is of old wood, of remote wings empty all this time just reopened to accommodate the rush of souls, of cold plaster where all the rats have died, only their ghosts, still as cave-painting, fixed stubborn and luminous in the walls . . .
Here we go, a bit from definitely my favorite book ( with ulysses maybe). Actually, it’s not essential Pynchon’s style, except rats maybe, still the point is that seldom you can find such a vivid, powerful description. It’s truly mind-blowing. Imagine a tunnel with cave-paintings of rats’ ghosts on the walls, except that are not actual paintings but there is a feeling like they were there. If you know what I mean or not at all, enjoy.