También tuve mi Boswell en otro tiempo.

—I had my Boswell, once —Mason tells Boswell—. Dixon and I. We had a joint Boswell. Preacher nam'd Cherrycoke. Scribbling ev'rything down, just like you, Sir. Have you, —twiring his hand in Ellipses— you know, ever... had one yourself? If I'm not prying.

—Had one what?

—Hum... a Boswell, Sir, I mean, of your own. Well you couldn't very well call him that, being one yourself, say, a sort of Shadow ever in the Room who has haunted you, preserving your ev'ry spoken remark. Which else would have been lost forever to the great Wind of Oblivion, think —armsweep south— as all civiliz'd Britain gathers at this hour, how much shapely Expression, from the titl'd Gambler, the Barmaid's Suitor, the offended Fopling, the gratified Toss-Pot, is simply fading away upon the Air, out under the Door, into the Evening and the Silence beyond.

(Y Pynchon también es Boswell. ¿Pero de quién? ¿De Cherrycoke? ¿De Mason? ¿De América?).