I finally finished V by Thomas Pynchon.

I was a fan of the book during the parts I understood. But when the story trips from 1950's bohemian artist culture to pre-WWII Maltese revolutionary history, I admit, I get a little lost.

Highlight of the last chapter:

In her face is always a slight bow to the nose, a wide spacing of the eyes, which are small. No one you'd turn to watch on the street. But she was a teacher of love after all. Only pupils of love need to be beautiful.

Oh, and there's a great illustration of Kilroy, made entirely of an electronics schematic: