Anyone who knows me knows that Tom Robbins is my favorite author. That is a bold statement from an English major turned librarian who reads widely and admires many writers. Since discovering Robbins in my early twenties and reading everything he had published up to that point, I have rushed out to buy his most recently published novels while still in hardback as soon as they hit the bookstore shelves. I did the same with his recently published, Tibetan Peach Pie: A True Account of an Imaginative Life, and have relished every taste of every slice. Having just closed the cover after reading the final chapter, Swan Song, I now begin my review, which I must confess is as much love letter as it is literary critique. A love letter and a note of thanks in gratitude for what Tom Robbins has given me for three decades of my life so far.
It is not too much of a stretch to say that Tom Robbins saved my life. During those turbulent years of my 20s while I was already divorced and single parenting my only son, I suffered depression and angst as I tried to envision a life for myself that might allow for me to continue my creative journey, in spite of the detour I’d taken while so young that I did not yet even know the rules of the road. A boyfriend at the time loaned me his copy of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues and I lost myself, along with Sissy Hankshaw, within The Chink’s caverns where time became an abstract concept. When I would close the pages of that fictional world to respond to life’s demands, said boyfriend told me he could tell I’d been reading Robbins “by the way I walked.” I am like the fan who wrote to Robbins in her memoir worthy letter, “Your books make me laugh, they make me think, they make me horny, and they make me aware of all the wonder in the world.”
I next read Robbins’ first novel, Another Roadside Attraction, and began to see myself and my son as Amanda and her infant son Thor. (I’ve always over identified with characters in the novels I read. If you could ask my mother, she'd tell you about the week she had to serve me nothing but bread and cheese for dinner while I read Heidi). Amanda has continued to serve as my role model of a woman free of convention while nurturing and caring for her child, the world, and all of its inhabitants. Her observation that “human beings were invented by water as a device for transporting itself,” has remained my favorite antidote for anthropocentrism. During those years I was juggling my life as a parent and a poet and a full-time English major at the local university. For my senior thesis, “Digging Up the Underground Novel,” I focused my attention on novels that gained mass appeal slowly, sometime after original their publication, usually as a paperback, via word-of-mouth promotion, often on college campuses. Another Roadside Attraction figured prominently among the titles. It was gratifying to see my pre-Internet research into the publication statistics from the Library of Congress validated by Robbins’ own description of his first novel's sales in his chapter, “The Book.”
Until another of his books was published, at which time I would abandon anything else to pick it up and read: Villa Incognito, Wild Ducks Flying Backward, B is for Beer, and now, Tibetan Peach Pie, I have gone about the business of rereading each of Robbins’ novels, this time in chronological order of its publishing, noting Robbins’ own evolution as a writer, thinker, and theologian. (Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates, by the way, demonstrating the apex of all his learning, in my opinion). Robbins taught me the gift of “wabi-sabi.” Amidst my own imperfect life, his novels reminded me, as he articulates so beautifully in his recent account, “This program is subject to change – often unexpectedly, sometimes in the batting of an eye. It’s the best argument I know against suicide.” His novels illustrated the magic of possibility in ways that gave me hope. Since rereading Still Life with Woodpecker in the advent of computer technology, “Unwilling to wait for mankind to improve, the outlaw lives as if that day were here, and I love that most of all,” has remained my email signature quote. How very grateful I am that Robbins “possess[es] the lightness of spirit and the freedom of mind to live as if such developments [manifestion] would pale in comparison to those one regularly experiences at the piano, the easel, the writing pad, or upon viewing the pattern of fallen leaves in the gutter; to live – against all evidence – as if advances in fortune were already here.”
Five years ago, I decided to visit a therapist while trying to decide about making a major life change. It involved, as choices often do, the decision to leave behind something familiar, safe, and secure to try something new, different and without promise of safety or security. The rational, practical side that had needed to rule me all those years I’d been the provider for myself and my child argued that I should remain in my conservative hometown, with my family, in a good job I had been invested in for years. Another part of me wanted to join my soul mate on the adventure that had taken him to a California beach town renowned for embracing bohemians and hippies, young and old alike. My brilliant therapist, aware of my love for Tom Robbins, asked me astutely, “What would a character in one of Robbins’ novels do?” Of course, the answer was easy.
Now in my 50’s, middle-aged, overweight, mild-mannered, school-librarian on the outside, I am still living life as if I were one of my many female heroines in Robbins’ novels. What a gift for the creator of these characters to share his own honest, earnest, very human telling of Tibetan Peach Pie: A True Account of an Imaginative Life. Going back to his earliest shamanistic impulses as a boy with is talking stick, we learn the stories that took “little Tommy Rotten” from down South to the Pacific Northwest. Robbins’ shows us “how writing can be simultaneously ironic and heartfelt,” and how he followed that impulse, uncommon in the publishing world, to “awaken the reader’s sense of wonder.” Now in his 80’s, Robbins’ final chapter, “Swan Song,” reminds me that there will come a day when I can no longer rush out to buy his latest book still in hardback. Tibetan Peach Pie could be the last, and this realization breaks my heart. Throughout his account, Robbins seems to point out that, in spite of reasoning to the contrary, there does seem to be some “juju” in the world. I’d like to hope that, like his characters in Jitterbug Perfume, Robbins will live forever. As long as his novels do, he will live in our collective imagination.