For a couple of months now I've been reading Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow. It's a big book, and a tough one to read. Like the work of José Saramago, the style of Pynchon's writing turns reading it into work, made worthwhile by the golden nuggets scattered about (clever observations, plot twists, etc). But, writing density aside, Pynchon's work is quite different, full of postmodern style shifts and surreal episodes, some hardcore enough to make Pier Paolo Pasolini blush. Still, I'm writing all this because of the following passage from Gravity's Rainbow:

“And that time is an artificial resource to begin with, of no value to anyone or anything but the System, which sooner or later must crash to its death, when its addiction to energy has become more than the rest of the World can supply, dragging with it innocent souls all along the chain of life. Living inside the System is like riding across the country in a bus driven by a maniac bent on suicide..."

'Nuff said.