Beware the Awareness of Greatness

As some of my friends know, or don't know and perhaps don't care, I have a true affection for Tom Robbins.

Not Harold Robbins, also a novelist, or Tim Robbins, an actor of dubious fame who had the also dubious pleasure of sharing a great deal of his life with Susan Sarandon, another one of my mental idols, along with Marilyn Monroe and Will Rogers, all for very different reasons.

No, I was introduced to the written meanderings of Tom Robbins back in 1980, when I read his third novel, "Still Life with Woodpeckers," having been an aficionado of book stores (and reading) back in the day. I was looking at a table stacked with the newest publications and saw his face on the back cover. So, I suppose, even before I read a word, I was intrigued by his "look," which in a word, looked almost exactly like a cartoon I had drawn on a paper bag back in high school, a vision of what I hoped my future husband would resemble. In fact, my husband at the time did resemble him, with a bit of a lackadaisical swagger, tousled wheat-colored hair and that crooked smile. But, soon after our daughter was born in 1979, I was divorced from the aforementioned husband, and sadly so. But I digress, as usual.

The book's cover also intrigued me. It was a beautiful rendition of a woodpecker (the large variety of the bird, I believe) holding a match, and was reminiscent of a pack of Camel cigarettes. The back cover touted that it was a "sort of love story" that "dealt with the problem of redheads." Flipping immediately to the back of the paperback, as I am wont to do before reading any book, there was a scrawled statement: "It's never too late to have a happy childhood." I purchased it ($4.50) and I have been hooked on Tom Robbins and his books ever since.

But, I have never, in all these years, dug into the man himself, preferring to learn him from his words, and to savor the snippets of his life written on the inside covers of said books. When I learned he had written books prior to this one, I was down at the local Barnes & Noble, purchasing them to savor up even more of the strange wisdoms I found to be so like my own. I have purchased every one of his books since, reading them with cookies and milk, reading them on buses and planes, reading them after Friday night beer escapades (although not for long).

In 2011, a sort of autobiography was released, "Tibetan Peach Pie." Of course, I had been out of the reading habit for well over two decades by this time, and didn't find out about this book until 2018, but in need of diversions, and having a bit more free time via self-employment and semi-retirement, I purchased it.

 I read about his childhood, his marriages (which also strangely resembled my own) and his former and current philosophies of life: then, now and forever. He described his voice as having a North Carolina affectation with a heavy dose of Appalachian twang. I realized I had never heard his voice.

I had never, in this age of internet stalking, googled him. I was content to read his words, marvel at his acquired wisdoms, gobble down all of his imaginative scenarios with singular characters of whom I would have been sitting at a bar with, and probably have at one point or another. But now, I needed to hear that voice.

So, I found a YouTube video of an interview done with Tom Robbins. An 80-year old Tom Robbins, who had lost that boyish grin, that tousled hair that bloom of youth. Not the Tom Robbins I had admired for decades.  I am only loyal to two novelists: Tom Robbins and Carl Hiaasen. I've heard Carl Hiaasen's voice and it matches his writing, and that lovely slightly honey-smooth Southern accent is definitely pleasing. But, Robbins' voice is creaky like an old pantry door, with almost no discernible accent, much less one of the Southern variety. I attributed this to his many years in Washington state, where there is no accent to speak of. I wasn't devastated, but certainly not overjoyed. What I had expected to hear, and what I heard, were not cohesive.

Sometimes, I have found, it is best to leave a bit of mystery, a bit of wonder, in all that which we find interesting. It's good when we can have that tiny tidbit of our own imaginations about something - or someone - unknown. Perhaps knowing everything about those whom we hold in high esteem is not necessarily a good thing. If Robbins manages to crank out another novel, I will surely buy it, if only to see what bit of takeaway wisdom I can glean from it. But I will never, ever google him again. I am content to know just enough.