If the way Tyrone Slothrop’s search for the Schwarzgerät spirals through the Zone kept you riveted, you’ll click with the way Infinite Jest ricochets between Ennet House, the tennis academy, and fringe cells hunting the master cartridge. Like Pynchon’s V‑2 arc, Wallace’s “Entertainment” pulls disparate lives—Hal Incandenza, Don Gately, Joelle—into a non‑linear web of dossiers, rumors, and footnoted detours that feel like flipping through secret files at PISCES.

If you loved drifting among Pirate Prentice, Pointsman, Katje, and the Schwarzkommando as their stories refracted the war, Underworld offers a similar sweep. DeLillo tracks Nick Shay, Klara Sax, and a chorus of others across decades, linking waste management, art, baseball lore, and Cold War fallout with the same panoramic hum you felt moving from Slothrop’s maps to IG Farben’s boardrooms.

If the IG Farben–Weissmann networks, PISCES experiments, and the Schwarzgerät’s shadow scratched your itch for high-level scheming, Eco’s novel turns the screw. Casaubon and his colleagues assemble a grand conspiracy out of scraps—Templars, Rosicrucians, secret maps—until the plan starts moving men in the real world, much the way Slothrop keeps discovering that the plot has been writing him all along.

If Slothrop’s dissolution in the Zone—those dislocated towns, phantom organizations, and hallucinated encounters—worked on you, Ice distills that feeling. An unnamed narrator chases a woman through collapsing territories while an uncanny glaciation advances, the way Pynchon’s Europe feels both mapped and unknowable. Scenes flicker and reform like Slothrop’s identity, turning pursuit into a surreal trance.

If Brigadier Pudding’s grotesque rituals, Pirates’s breakfast fantasia, and the slapstick woven through V‑2 terror made you laugh in spite of yourself, O’Brien’s novel is your tonic. Its policemen debate atomic bicycle-theory while meting out doom, footnotes spiral into crackpot scholarship like Pynchon’s faux-science asides, and the punchlines land where the trapdoor drops—blackly hilarious and existential.