”I’ll tell you what I know, then,” he decided. “The pin I’m wearing means I’m a member of the IA. That’s Inamorati Anonymous. An inamorato is somebody in love. That’s the worst addiction of all.”

     ”Somebody is about to fall in love,” Oedipa said, “you go sit with them, or something?”

     ”Right. The whole idea is to get to where you don’t need it. I was lucky. I kicked it young. But there are sixty year old men, believe it or not, and women even older, who wake up in the night screaming.”

"The architectonic purity of her world was constantly threatened by such hints of anarchy: gaps and excrescences and skew lines, and a shifting or tilting of planes to which she had continually to readjust lest the whole structure shiver into a disarray of discrete and meaningless signals. Callisto had described the process once as a kind of “feedback”: she crawled into dreams each night with a sense of exhaustion, and a desperate resolve never to relax that vigilance. Even in the brief periods when Callisto made love to her, soaring above the bowing of taut nerves in haphazard doublestops would be the one singing string of her determination."

Thomas Pynchon — Entropy

…drool.

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I’m smitten.