Reading Thomas Pynchon is a little like spending the day walking down a crowded city street and then trying to extract a story from the cacophony of sounds you've encountered. I love it a little for it's madness I think.
What's most remarkable is that from deep within the madness, a thing emerges which is carefully shaped and molded into a profound tyranny of experience and moment. It takes you somewhere and, finally, it is only that view from which the whole mad mess can be understood.
Then again, perhaps I have only imagined the view.