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"Fuck you," whispers Slothrop. It's the only spell he knows, and a pretty good all-purpose one at that. His whisper is baffled by the thousands of tiny rococo surfaces. Maybe he'll sneak in tonight - no not at night - but sometime, with a bucket and brush, paint FUCK YOU in a baloon coming out the mouth of one of those little pink sheperdesses there. ...
He steps back out, backward out the door, as if half, his ventral half, were being struck in kingly radiance: retreating from yet facing the Presence feared and wanted.
Thomas Pynchon, Gravity's Rainbow (Penguin 1995, p203)