Reviews
We often think of certain emotions having a particular colour. Anger is red, jealousy is green. Critics might call a piece of music melancholic, brash or aggressive. A sommelier might claim the experience of the tasting a particular wine can lead us think of nostalgia, masculinity, and notes of wet concrete. I once had a white rum from the Dominican Republic that tasted like bacon fat. Why should our experience of reading prose be any different? I'm not just talking about plain metaphor. Writing can easily appear flat and lacking vibrancy like a chastised soufflé. It can be electric and fast, bouncing like an EDM track in your head, or nagging and slow like thick gorse. Just as our senses can stumble over each other, creating quirky synaesthesia in our conscious broadband, so too can written prose produce its own weird experiences. Jitterbug Perfume is written like a Jackson Pollock painting and illustrated like an episode of Superjail. The story and characters, locations and sensations are all strung along like the floating pinpricks of fairy light, suspended in the night sky by Robbins’ irreverent, erratic and disillusory prose. Each paragraph has its own smell and colour, a lecherous goblin coxswain beating its own languid pace and yelling obscenities at its page mates. It is a book to be tasted, so full of imaginative detail and filigree that an eye could never appreciate it all. I'd even go as far as say that some of his metaphors defy visual understanding (as the many-buttocked thighs of Seattle with have acknowledge lmao). Curiously, no one in Jitterbug Perfume is egocentric or domineering. Few of the characters seem to know or care that they’re meant to be holding up a plotline, readily enjoying themselves in sticky carnality and critical musings. Free-wheeling paragraphs lean out from the page to spritz us with and erotic vapour to keep us in a daze, distracting us from the sock hung over the doorknob as the protagonists take a literary five. It takes until the last third of the novel for the different subplots to even lift their head from the sheets and acknowledge they’re all in the same room. This is a book that needs to be enjoyed before it can be read. The cast will stamp their feet in frustration if you approach them with too serious an eye. The poetry will blow a raspberry if you try and question its melodrama. In order to appreciate the absurdist theme, the lewd topnote and the beet-red basenote of laughter that holds it all together as a base, you’ll need to first ask yourself: am I ready to smell fun?
One star off cuz I can tell by the writing that this guy is a little weird…but great story!
Wow…this might be a perfect book….no notes
Pretty disappointed at first compared to still life with woodpecker until it finally got moving more than 100 pages in. I usually found myself excited to read this book and it was certainly interesting but I feel like some of the concepts he tried to explore were not fully fleshed out and always super wordy and pretentious. Once the plot finally got moving it was entertaining and I feel like the last half of the book and the ending in general wrapped up really nicely. Tentative 3.6
Wierd, mystical, funny and an ultimate page-turner. Tom Robbin's writes as if he is not from this world following two different interweiving storylines.
I seriously doubt you will find a better book in the intersection of love, immortality, parfumes, and beets.
Highlights
Never underestimate how much assistance, how much satisfaction, how much comfort, how much soul and transcendence there might be in a well-made taco and a cold bottle of beer.
The proud pragmatism of civilized intelligence was being insulted again by goofy nature.
“Yes. But your phone calls taper off.”
Seattle rain smelled different from New Orleans rain, thought V'lu. She was right. New Orleans rain smelled of sulfur and hibiscus, trumpet metal, thunder, and sweat. Seattle rain, the widespread rain of the Great Northwest, smelled of green ice and sumi ink, of geology and silence and minnow breath.
lambent,
plangent,
stiff as Medusa's optometrist.
Like a baby grand in a town without piano movers, Madame had settled firmly into place,
Or would beasts converse in the style of Hemingway, in sentences short, brave, and clear; each word a smooth pebble damp with blood; aboriginal speech, he-man speech, an economy of language borrowed by Gary Cooper from frontiersmen who borrowed it from Apache and Ute?
Christ, who played no musical instrument, recited no poetry, and never kicked up his heels by moonlight, this Christ was the perfect wedge. Christianity is merely a system for turning priestesses into handmaidens, queens into concubines, and goddesses into muses.”
the path to the marvelous is sometimes cleared by a sharp tongue,
The secondary function of a bathroom mirror is to measure murmurs in mental mud
And he vowed that in the future he would strive to keep that sense of play more in mind, for he'd grown convinced that play- more than piety, more than charity or vigilance was what allowed human beings to transcend evil.
This book appears on the shelf Tower teams 4
This book appears on the shelf Fantasy
This book appears on the shelf Romance
