How did I miss this book! Absolutely loved it - startling how much was relevant for today (which might be kind of sad).

This novel about a young woman with abnormally large thumbs is a bit of a shaggy dog story; there's the young lady, a mystic wiseman, whooping cranes, and a commune of free spirited cow girls. At times, the narrative is funny with clever writing. Ultimately, this novel meandered too much.

Awful. Just awful.

Though the author does sometimes have a charming way with words, more often than not that way is overshadowed by his by-now-extremely-dated New Age philosophy and "aren't-I-a-fantastic-writer?" ego.

Meanwhile, you're doing the difficult and mind-numbingly unappealing work of attempting to dredge up half a liking for a single one of his cardboard characters (who are presumably meant to be intriguing one-and-all due to some bizarre and randomly-assigned attribute, and who, weirdly, all sound *exactly like the narrator* when they speak, with the exception of an occasional half-assed catch-phrase such as "podner", or gesture such as mustache-stroking. Way to excel at dialogue and characterization, dude...) while trudging through the convoluted and incredibly uninteresting plot. Add in a disturbingly misogynistic 1970s concept of sexuality (women apparently only dabble in lesbianism if there doesn't happen to be a dick around... oh, and all women and young girls are seemingly down with uninvited sexual contact, even when it takes the form of molestation by creepy dudes in cars, 'cause that's not gross at all) and you have a novel it took me three freaking weeks to get through, when the typical amount of time I'd spend on a book of this length is closer to three hours. The time would have been far better spent reading some dry scientific tome about whooping cranes rather than filling my head with these characters, these storylines, this dreck. This... this is Ayn Rand for hippies.

Oh, and also, apparently fat women just plain lose all ability to focus at the mere mention of sweets. Why? Because Tom Robbins is a sexist ass and can't help proving it every other page or so, just in case you didn't believe him the first hundred or so times he tried to make that patently clear. And he'll keep right on proving it, again and again, until the very end of the book. Ugh.

Τί να πω για αυτό το βιβλίο! Ένα καυστικό μυθιστόρημα που διακωμωδεί καταστάσεις της Αμερικής και όχι μόνο. Αν το βιβλίο ακολουθούσε την υπόθεσή του και δεδομένου του ευφυούς και αστείου εξωφύλλου του θα του έβαζα γύρω στα 4 αστέρια. Κι όμως του έβαλα 2. Ιδού οι λόγοι:

Είναι προφανές ότι ο συγγραφέας έχει απέραντες γνώσεις. Είναι προφανές ότι θα μπορούσε κάλλιστα να γράψει δοκίμια. Δεν πρόκειται για δοκίμιο όμως. Πρόκειται για ένα συνονθύλευμα γνώσεων που παρεισφρύουν μέσα σε ένα διήγημα. Στην αρχή έχουν πλάκα αλλά εξελίσσονται σε κουραστικό τέχνασμα. Κοντά στο τέλος δε του βιβλίου δεν έχουν απολύτως κανένα νόημα παρά να καθυστερήσουν την πλοκή και να κάνει ο συγγραφέας τον ξερόλα.

Η ίδια η πλοκή μου θύμισε λίγο την έκφραση που μου έλεγε ο πατέρας μου: Αξεκάρφωτα σανίδια καρφωμένα κεραμίδια. Μια καλλονή με ένα περίεργο σωματικό χαρακτηριστικό, ένας εκατομμυριούχος που δεν αντέχει την γυναικεία μυρωδιά, ένας Ινδιάνος που έχει ενσωματωθεί στην δυτική κουλτούρα, ένα μάτσο αναρχικές γυναίκες που θέλουν να γίνουν καουμπόισσες, ένας Γιαπωνέζος που εχει μερατραπει σε ινδιάνο και ένα σμήνος γερανοί συνθέτουν το σύνολο των "ηθοποιών". Ερωτικά τρίγωνα, ίντριγκες, ρολόγια και μαστουρωμένοι και ό,τι άλλο μπορεί να κατεβάσει ο νους του Τιμ Ρόμπινς υποτίθεται πως θα δημιουργούσαν ένα καταπληκτικό μυθιστόρημα. Κι όμως όχι...

n  n    B.R.A.CE. 2018 ένα βιβλίο με ρήμα στον τίτλο
n  n

So embarrassing.

I’m writing this review because Ashley requested it.

This book was such a clusterfuck I don’t even know where to begin, so much so that I may bring it down to one star. First of all, the author inserted HIMSELF into the book fantasizing about having sex with the cowgirls in this book. That was weird. Second of all, the whole plot was basically about a girl with large thumbs and her sex appeal, which could have been explored further but no. Also it rubbed me the wrong way that a crusty dusty white man wrote about her in this way with no analysis to make reading this not an utter waste of time. Third of all, he makes most of the lesbian characters hook up with men and tried to play it off as “what they need.” So I would give this book a pass.

FINALLY I FINISHED THIS. What a slog. Too experimental and meta by half and very MAN-SPLAINY. I liked when the book focused on Sissy and the Cowgirls, but not any of the male characters. This is what I get for breaking my vow to only read female authors this year. Bah.

NYT: Tom Robbins, Whose Comic Novels Drew a Cult Following, Dies at 92
He blended pop philosophy and absurdist comedy in best-selling books like “Even Cowgirls Get the Blues” and “Skinny Legs and All.”

Read a very long time ago, back before I was writing reviews.

RIP Tom Robbins.

Weirdest book I’ve ever read. Author is a creep but writes in the strangest detailed way

Dnf 37%. I just don’t find comedies of this era that funny/engaging (don dellilo, etc). Tough bc my mother in law recommended it as her favorite book + I told her when I was starting it

Ah, now I remember why I loved Robbins and why I stopped. My first year of college ended in 1983, and one of my new roommates that summer introduced me to the writing of Tom Robbins (Thank you, Kendra!) Such daring, such freedom: you can do whatever you want and screw The Man. Here was this guy telling me how to do anything I wanted and have fun, have a laugh even. The Vonnegut -loving portion of my brain lit up in recognition. Heady stuff. Happy revolution. This is one of the things we go to college for, right?
Skinny Legs and All came out in 1990. By then I had read books on feminism by women. By then I had had more than fifteen years of being constantly judged for attractiveness and congeniality without having to actually enter a beauty pageant, although I never had a shot at a scholarship either. I'd had more than fifteen years of bosses, acquaintances, and random strangers sexually harassing me at school and at work. I would be 27 before I held a job that didn't include harassment from co-workers or customers. By 1990 I had very little interest in a man telling me how to be all free and sexy. By the time I met Robbins I was right over that shit. Not that I remember him in particular: I spent a year opening books for authors at book signings, and there were a number I never read again for being awful people to the help.
#MeToo

DNF, this book really sucked. Couldn't get into it, weird writing style and premise.