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Pynchon, instead, chooses to end the novel before that moment,
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and so we're left with a kind of emptiness.
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We're left with the multiple options that she laments.
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If you look on 146-147, she rehearses all the possibilities of meaning,
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and her conclusion, finally, is this:
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San Narciso was a name, an incident among our climatic records of dreams
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and what dreams became among our accumulated daylight,
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a moment's squall line or tornado's touchdown among the higher,
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more continental solemnities,
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storm systems of group suffering and need, prevailing winds of affluence.
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There was the true continuity.
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San Narciso had no boundaries.