Still Life with Woodpecker (1980)

Tom Robbins has a way of using words like no other author I've read, and that alone made this book worth reading. But the plot and characters don't live up to the promise of the words; everything's too cute, too perfect, too choreographed. Even the big twists and falls from grace are expertly timed and have no roughness. Robbins talks a lot about freedom and self-determination but his world is too clean and padded to let you dirty your hands or scrape your knees.

Just as you probably don't look like the people on billboards, you will never lead a life as charmed as those of Tom Robbins' characters, and for that reason it's tempting to say that Robbins is, against all appearances, merely one more tentacle of The Man. Though I suspect he would react to that accusation with good-natured amusement; after all, that's how he reacts to everything else in the universe.

(And can I just say it's annoying how he won't shut up about his main character's sexual anatomy? If you're trying to depict sexual experience from someone's perspective, you don't talk about their bits, you talk about the people they're attracted to. Unless the protagonist is really this fascinated with her own breasts and vagina, which I found hard to believe, the only possible conclusion is that it's Robbins who's fascinated with them -- he's ogling his own character.)

I don't know. I didn't hate this book. It was certainly something else, something I'm not used to. Robbins is a powerful wizard and I want him on my side against the bad guys, but I don't think he's interested. I've heard his later books are better, so maybe he eventually learns to use his powers for good. Though I can't say I liked Still Life with Woodpecker, I feel oddly well-disposed towards it. It makes me think of something Roger Ebert once wrote in a review:

"My rational mind informs me that this movie doesn't work. Yet I hear a subversive whisper: Since it does so many other things, does it have to work, too? Can't it just exist?" ( )

This was alright. I didn't like it as much as Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, or maybe even Skinny Legs and All. It was alright - that is all. ( )

Well what can you say about Tom Robbins' classic? Can't comment much on his writing style, it's definitely uncommon and one of the things people tend to love or hate about him. One could spend days analyzing his every sentence. Personally, I like it ... most of the time.

Going to the book itself the princess and the mad bomber called the woodpecker is the cover story for an intriguing philosophical debate on the fight between the established and the newfangled, between compromise and rebellion, between love and time and not only. If you are looking for an intriguing plot or deep characterization probably not what you want. Personally I found myself agreeing and disagreeing at the same time with a lot of what he says. Having read some of his other work, it seems to me that Robbins has an obsession with the occult, paranormal and is a firm believer that being unconventional has a value in itself. I find the whole thing a bit silly for a lack of a better word, but he does manage to get some interesting insights despite the weird starting point. Anyway you don't need to agree with Robbins to enjoy it. ( )

I loved this book in the early 90's and i loved it again. ( )

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A little disappointing, in that it felt like a pretty close reproduction of the other Tom Robbins books that I've read, but I guess I shouldn't give the guy too much crap for being able to do one thing, and do it well.

This was another enjoyable read, with memorable characters and unusual plot twists, managing to serve as a showcase for Robbins' demonstrable love of hearing himself talk as well as his very apparent, yet somewhat mystifying, issues with women. I still can't decide if he loves, fears, hates, or is disgusted by women, but I can't shake the feeling that he doesn't really know anything about them. Then again, lacking any such knowledge myself, who am I to criticize?

The standout section of the book for me was Leigh-Cherie's self-imprisonment. Robbins is the kind of author who seems to benefit greatly when stripped of excess stimuli (a fact of which I think he might be aware, based solely on his apparent interest in isolated locales), and he is able to riff quite extensively with little more than a pack of cigarettes.

I still think he's more than a little full of bullshit (as well as being full of himself), but I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing. ( )