This book epitomizes exactly what bothers me about post-modernists. You could spend your life decoding all the images and symbols and patterns and names and places and endless conspiracy theories that Pynchon has so densely packed into only one hundred and fifty pages; you could think and think and ask yourself "What's real?" to infinity; you could do that, sure, but all that effort would essentially be pointless, because in the end, none of it means anything, because there is no meaning but what we decide is the meaning, so why even bother in the first place.
I guess if you're interested in that sort of thing -- endless questioning, never any resolution -- than this book is for you. With that said, however, I enjoyed the book. Why? Because Pynchon is a master word-smith. If I could construct a sentence like this guy, I'd be set for life.