Normally I hate loopy comparisons, but the only way I can describe this book is that it's the hardboiled detective noir of The Maltese Falcon plus the absurd goofiness of The Big Lebowski plus the copious drug use of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Pynchon is always stereotyped as a Difficult Author who writes Long and Complicated Literature, but one thing I've always loved about him is just how funny he is, even when he's writing about medieval postal conspiracies (The Crying of Lot 49), impossibly weird V2 rocket cartels (Gravity's Rainbow), or 18th century surveying controversies (Mason & Dixon). Inherent Vice is a sort of parody of detective fiction - I haven't read that much of the classic 30s-era detective stuff, but Pynchon hilariously spoofs the endless double-crosses and plot twists of the whodunit genre by wrapping the predictably unpredictable left turns in a very funny nostalgia trip for the late-60s/early-70s California surfer scene that's as much about the constantly high main character and his stoner buddies as it is about the murder mystery they're trying to solve, escape, or just ignore when the late-night cartoon marathons hit the airwaves. This might be the most normal (i.e., least insane) book he's ever written, but it was also one of the most immediately satisfying.
