There is also the story about Tyrone Slothrop, who was sent into the Zone to be present as his own assembley--perhaps heavily paranoid voices whisper, 'his time's assembley'--and there ought to be a punchline to it, but there isn't. The plan went wrong. He is being broken down instead and being scattered. His cards have been laid down, Celtic style, in the order suggested by Mr. A.E. Waite, laid out and read, but they are the cards of a tanker and feeb: they point only to a long and scuffling future, to mediocrity...-to no clear happiness or redeeming cataclysm.
Tyrone Slothrop finds himself in the Zone, not as a cohesive being but rather as a fragmented assembly of his fragmented self. Whispers suggest he should be prepared for something significant, yet the anticipated punchline is absent. Instead of achieving clarity or purpose, he experiences disintegration and scattering, suggesting a profound failure of the plan that was set in motion for him.
The arrangement of his fate resembles a Celtic tarot reading, seemingly rich with potential meaning. However, the cards depict a bleak future filled with mediocrity rather than vibrant outcomes. Slothrop's existence reflects a struggle devoid of true joy or transformational events, painting a picture of uncertainty and despair instead of promise.
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All the things you can talk about in anyone's work are the things that are least important.
Race of Cain, ascend to heaven, And cast God down upon the earth!
