When Pynchon’s first novel, “V.,” was published in 1963, The Times described him “as a young man of almost painful modesty who fled to the wilds of Mexico rather than face the usual hoopla that goes with publication of a book.” But he left us this enigmatic story, the first in a series of elaborate puzzle boxes with no apparent solution, or even center. It is never established just who or what V is — a person, a place?
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