Faint janglings of music ascended from the Midway pavilions, a bass drum thumped like the pulse of some living collective creature down there.
* * * * * * * * * *
I realize that a lot of my reading of the lines of this novel stem from my own beliefs and philosophies about how I think we should regard society, civilization, and living. But I'm also trying to rein it into the bounds of what I believe Pynchon is saying. And no matter how conservative a person's political leanings, I can't imagine their biases and prejudices could allow them to remain blind to his anti-colonial philosophy. It's just absolutely everywhere. And so I choose to read this bit as a statement of intent: we are a living collective creature. We must work together to survive. And the heart of what we are is primal, a tribal bass drum thumping away in time, orchestrating all the moving parts toward one overreaching goal. Keeping us alive. Trying to keep us healthy and moving forward. The "unbearable whiteness" is what we see; the pulsing bass drum beat, surely meant to evoke a tribal or primal sound, the sound of brown people, drives us. The sound which in America will become Ragtime, and then Jazz, and then Rock 'n' Roll.
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