There's one worker, an obnoxious, artlessly profane, belligerent complainer, who I'll be glad to hear the last of. The wall is almost up, the summer of constant annoyances outside my window is almost over. But I could take maybe a little bit more: throwing a piece of metal into the house, and shouted back at from inside, the complainer, alone out in the yard with hardly anyone to behold him, ridiculously, taunts: 'What are you gonna do about it? What are you gonna do about it?' He keeps repeating himself. 'What are you gonna do about it?' Finally! Some action! I'm willing to let this play out.

But, no, no one else wants to play his game. Everyone goes back to banging on things and ignores him.

'It's a tweet.'

'… both are sought in silence.'

On Pynchon's California Novels

'… writing is blurry individuality under a general system.'

'They can deactivate me whenever they feel like it, and if I complain, they tell me to fuck off.'

'She says that when she is not writing she is dead and you can see she means it.'

The repairmen have reached the stage of the wall-rebuilding project where they bang on things, and that's all, which is great.

'… recuperated and heard in the solitude of reading.'