"This work may well stand as one of the very best works of the century." — Atlantic Review Acclaimed writer Thomas Pynchon's wild, macabre tale of the twentieth century and of two men—one looking for something he has lost, the other with nothing much to lose—and "V.," the unknown woman of the title. Pynchon's debut novel follows discharged Navy sailor Benny Profane as he reconnects with an eclectic collection of artists in New York known as the "Whole Sick Crew" along with his sidekick Pig Bodine, and the plot of Herbert Stencil, looking to find the woman he knows only as she is described in his father's diary: "V." Brimming with madcap characters, the novel meanders from New York to Alexandria, Cairo, Paris, Florence, and Africa, and traverses generations. Time magazine raves, "Few books haunt the waking or the sleeping mind, but this is one." "This work may well stand as one of the very best works of the century." - Atlantic Review "Filled with wild humor, inventive wordplay and a darkly imaginative power." - Philadelphia Inquirer "[ V. ] leaves the imagination spent and the mind reeling." - New York Herald Tribune “A cool, skilled, enigmatic first novel.”  - New Yorker "It is easier to nail a blob of mercury than to describe this novel by Thomas Pynchon." - Saturday Review “[V.] sails with majesty through caverns measureless to man. What does it mean? Who. finally, is V.? Few books haunt the waking or the sleeping mind, but this is one. Who, indeed?"  - Time “One of the most interesting productions of our century. . . . Pynchon’s creative imagination is amazing. . . . This work may well stand as one of the very best novels of the century.” - Atlanta Journal-Constitution “The underpinnings of Pynchon’s satire—the mathematical precision of his settings, the feverishly-sustained atmosphere of his conspiracy—are part of his book’s fascination. But even more exciting to behold here is the scope of a highly-energized mind at work.” - Boston Globe “Highly original. . . . [Pynchon] has produced as sophisticated and worldly a string of words as anyone has put together in novel form. . . . There is something for everyone here.”  - Chicago Tribune “The pace is breathless and the spectacle breathtaking . . . . I hope his next book will be every bit as wild, as unrestrained, as inventive, as hilarious, as invigorating as this one. . . . Benny Profane—and Thomas Pynchon—look with a wry eye at our cockeyed world and its people, with a welcome and astringent irony. ”  - Globe and Mail The wild, macabre tale of the twentieth century and of two men -- one looking for something he has lost, the other with nothing much to lose -- and "V.," the unknown woman of the title. Thomas Pynchon is the author of  V., The Crying of Lot 49, Gravity’s Rainbow, Slow Learner (a collection of short stories),  Vineland, Mason & Dixon, Against the Day, Inherent Vice, Bleeding Edge, and  Shadow Ticket. He received the National Book Award for Gravity’s Rainbow in 1974. V. By Pynchon, Thomas Perennial Copyright ©2004 Thomas Pynchon All right reserved. ISBN: 0060930217 Chapter One In which Benny Profane, a schlemihl and human yo-yo, gets to an apo- cheir V Christmas Eve, 1955, Benny Profane, wearing black levis, suede jacket, sneakers and big cowboy hat, happened to pass through Norfolk, Virginia. Given to sentimental impulses, he thought he'd look in on the Sailor's Grave, his old tin can's tavern on East Main Street. He got there by way of the Arcade, at the East Main end of which sat an old street singer with a guitar and an empty Sterno can for donations. Out in the street a chief yeoman was trying to urinate in the gas tank of a '54 Packard Patrician and five or six seamen apprentice were standing around giving encouragement. The old man was singing, in a fine, firm baritone: Every night is Christmas Eve on old East Main, Sailors and their sweethearts all agree. Neon signs of red and green Shine upon the friendly scene, Welcoming you in from off the sea. Santa's bag is filled with all your dreams come true: Nickel beers that sparkle like champagne, Barmaids who all love to screw, All of them reminding you It's Christmas Eve on old East Main. "Yay chief," yelled a seaman deuce. Profane rounded the corner. With its usual lack of warning, East Main was on him. Since his discharge from the Navy Profane had been roadlaboring and when there wasn't work just traveling, up and down the east coast like a yo-yo; and this had been going on for maybe a year and a half. After that long of more named pavements than he'd care to count, Profane had grown a little leery of streets, especially streets like this. They had in fact all fused into a single abstracted Street, which come the full moon he would have nightmares about. East Main, a ghetto for Drunken Sailors nobody knew what to Do With, sprang on your nerves with all the abruptness of a normal night's dream turning to nightmare. Dog into wolf, ligh