The central theme of this chapter seems to be the difference between reality and fantasy. As I read this chapter, I was constantly questioning whether or not I believed what was happening to Oedipa was real. Not just during her dream-like nighttime wandering in Part II, but throughout the chapter. The whole thing seems absurd to me. The whole novel does.
There is no such thing as a perpetual motion machine. No one in their right mind (though it seems very few characters in this novel are in their right minds) would believe in or invest in Maxwell's Demon. I don't believe it. Doesn't feel real.
The existance of a secret organization whose members communicate by delivering letters to a trash can under a bridge seems rather fantastic. I don't believe it. Doesn't feel real.
Randomly, out-of-the-blue, dancing with a group of deaf-mutes in perfect harmony for a full 30 minutes doesn't seem like something that happens in real life. I don't believe it. Doesn't feel real.
Arriving at a psychiatrist's house to find him firing a rifle at you is not something that most people experience. I don't believe it. Doesn't feel real.
The life of Oedipa feels like some kind of dream. Meaningless and disjointed yet, simultaneously, seemingly, and misleadingly, connected. It's unsettling.
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