My Problem with Tom Robbins

It dawned on me this morning while I was sitting, idling time away before I was required to leave for work that Even Cowgirls Get the Blues is taking me a lot longer than it should. It’s not a terribly difficult book to read: if you majored in literature. There. I said it. I’m maybe being a little pretentious, just a little. But it also occurred to me that I enjoy this book because it completely messes with the structure of traditional, fictional composition. Do not get me wrong, he is an amazing author, an extremely versatile author, and a beautiful writer. And there are these moments where Robbins shows that he knows what’s up with the human condition, and puts little quips that make you believe he might actually want you to lose yourself in his ridiculous peacock-ing. Robbins consistently breaks the threshold between author and reader, wanting you to know that the author is real; this book is a production of human hands.

Not necessarily good when you want to lose yourself in a book. It’s great if you want to discuss the importance of an author and how a book transcends time and how the author is forever engrained in history and… I could go on. But really, it reminds me of my theory class with a novel thrown in. The New Criticism group would have a field day with this one.

It is as if Robbins is sitting there with a small stick, and every time you get close to the characters, he pokes you with it, enthusiastically saying “Hey! Hey, I wrote this.” This hypothetical stick therefore makes you glare over at Robbins, to which he curtly replies “Well, I did give you this piece of literary genius. You should be happy with me.” And I mean, the book is really well written, and the story is extremely interesting, but I just can’t do it with the author looking over my shoulder. With one exception: there is an amazing paragraph comprised of sentences making fun of all the things sentences can do.

Outside of a classroom, where one is, looking for entertainment, I don’t know if I can do this. If I hadn’t been an English major, maybe this book would be more enjoyable, more entertaining. But every time I open the pages, I am reminded of all the literary devices I studied and the styles of criticism and the …. but really, I think I have to put this book down for a rest. I have 3 other books awaiting my reading them anyways, like Remains of the Day, which I started (so depressingly) back in December. I have made it 34 pages. Wow. What an impressive skill I have to finish books that nag me.

And I guess you could consider this as a partial review for ECGTB. When I can distance myself from the intricacies of literature, I might be able to pick this up again. (If that will ever happen, it would only be done with a miracle).