There are many dazzling things about Thomas Pynchon’s new novel “Bleeding Edge,” which is a bit like saying there are many wet things about the rain or complaining about heavy traffic on I-35 going north at rush hour — you can just kind of assume it will be that way and leave it at that.
But before we look at some of the dazzling bits, first, a weird (and, I promise, relevant) metric.
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