Still Life With Woodpecker (2001) - Plot & Excerpts
ве-ли-ко!Самолетът, с един малък зелен пътник по-малко, но с премия от седем пръчки динамит, продължаваше пресичането на онова, което всеки начинаещ сърфист знае, че е най-неуместно назованата водна площ на Земята. Самолетът свиреше, за да скрие страха си от гравитацията. Лий-Шери четеше списания, за да прикрие възбудата си.Възбудата превръщаше очите й в точки, досущ като ония, които стоят в края на всяко изречение. Запетайки на възбуда се поклащаха в стомаха й, където се гърчеха също и въпросителни знаци. От време на време тя се чувстваше така, сякаш седи върху възклицателни.* * * * *В опит да възстанови реда, на платформата се качи известен йога, делегат на фестивала. Той зае поза лотос. Започна да сияе. Спокойно, педантично, той разглоби една паяжина, а после я сглоби отново. (Не останаха ненужни части.) Погълна три пеперуди, а после ги избълва здрави и читави. Беше впечатлена само онази част от тълпата, която вече се беше успокоила. Йогата вонеше на вечност, а сред широките кръгове вечността просто вече не беше модерна.* * * * * Издуха носа си - сигнал за всички сълзи да се върнат по домовете и семействата си.* * * * * Като толкова обичаш Земята, знаеш ли, че тя е куха? Земята е куха, Лий-Шери. Вътре в кълбото има телено колело и една кетарица тича в него. Една малка катерица, която си изкарва джигера заради теб и мен. Вечер, преди да заспя, чувам тази катерица, чувам лудото тракане, чувам как бие малкото й сърце, чувам скърцането на катеричата клетка - колелото е старо, раздрънкано и разядено от ръжда. Катерицата върши цялата работа.* * * * * Под стъклото имаше морска карта на Хавайските острови. Чаши от кафе и текила бяха оставили кръгли отпечатъци върху стъклото, влажни атоли в океан, обсипан с трохи.Мъжете, с които си била, вероятно никога не биха целунали зърната ти на гърдите ти от страх да не всмучат някакви пестициди.* * * * * Под масата, под една карта на Хавай с несъществуващи атоли, тя потопи ръка в дълбините на своята пола и я плъзна по равнината на бедрото си. Разтършува се из гащичките. Дръпна. Ох! Мама му стара! Тя дръпна пак. И, разгеле, ето го, къдрав и твърд, червен като конец от социалистическо знаме.* * * * * Отидоха на пикник в една гора под вулкана. Мравки, вероятно окичени с микроскопични гирлянди от цветя, се стекоха да ги поздравят. Бърнард захапа един домат. После изплю семките. Семките образуваха кръг на земята. Те седнаха в този кръг. Решени да им пожелаят ‘алоха’, мравките шурмуваха преградата, но кръгът не поддаде. Лий-Шери подаде на Бърнард туршията. Бърнард подаде на Лий-Шери сиренето. Някъде в джунглата вятърът удряше едно о друго бамбуковите дървета, от което се получаваше едно мелодично трак-трак като от зъбите на древен тотем.* * * * * Кралят и Кралицата щяха да приемат Бърнард в библиотеката. Тя беше вехта стая, но на пода й лежеше рядък и скъп бял килим. По-бял от лебеди, по-бял от зъбобол, по-бял от дъха на самия Господ. Бърнард не беше виждал Лий-Шери от от почти две седмици. Той реши да опита незабелязано да й предаде бележка чрез Жулиета. В бележката си щеше да призове към находчивост. ‘Нека бъдем изядени от гладуващи малки щраусчета, ако не скроим някакъв план за тайни срещи’.* * * * * Колкото и да е странно, Лий-Шери беше най-спокойният член на домакинството. В известна степен това можеше да се отдаде на любовта, която я обгръщаше като копринена треска, но това също така се дължеше на факта, че в сряда, с две седмици закъснение, задъхан, притеснен, но без да се извинява, нервиран, но без да дава обяснения, пристигна нейният мензис.* * * * * Стаята беше прашна, мрачна и гола. Беше задушно и миришеше на гимнастически салон за хамали. Съвсем наскоро тук можеше да е тренирал отборът по борба на пияниците.* * * * * Беше истинско пладне, когато тя застана на своя прозорец и зарея поглед над града без сенки, нисък, избелял и разхвърлян като костница, като пикник по случай пенсионирането на употребявани училищни тебешири.* * * * * Луната няма нищо общо с това. Тя е само един дебел, тъп предмет, небесната тиквичка. Честно казано, Луната е голяма глупост. Изгоряла шлака с цвят на помия; изсъхнала сива бисквита, покрита с белези. Всеки свободен камък в нашата Слънчева система я е боцвал. Тя е била засипвана с камъни, изгаряна, пробождана, измъчвана. Ако възлюбените са избрали тази съсипана развалина, тази изтерзана топка прах, това разровено и изпъпчено парче безплодна земя за хранилище на своите мечти, Луната няма нищо общо с това.* * * * * Но мога и ще припомня два от най-важните факти, които знам:1) Всичко е част от романтиката2) Никога не е късно да имаш щастливо детство
Edit, Jan 2013: Funny story, I'm one of those people who totally loves Tom Robbins now, in part for a bunch of the reasons that I decided I didn't like him originally. What can I say, tastes change, and I've come to respect him a ton--in part, for his incredible similes/metaphors, which are worth anyone who ever wants to write picking up one of his books for.Original review:I'm not one of those people who hates or loves Tom Robbins, which I guess puts me in the minority.I'm a redhead, thus why I chose this Robbins novel to start with. There, I admitted it.The "plot," to put it broadly, is about a well-intentioned albeit naive redheaded "princess" who meets a redheaded self-obsessed "outlaw."Reading Robbins reads a lot like talking to someone with ADD or on some kind of mind-altering substance. It's entertaining at times - probably moreso if you're on the same substance - and at other times, you really just wish they'd shut the fuck up.Robbins' writing style is unique, that's for damn sure. After reading this, I'm pretty sure I've got him down pat. Give me a page from any other Robbins book, I bet you I could nail it. Here's the thing. Having a unique voice is important and all that, but it doesn't automatically make what they're writing worthwhile. In tandem with that voice, that personality, you have to know how to use it. You have to have some tact. Kurt Vonnegut, for example, kind of lives in his own world, and he uses that to his advantage, but he also knows how to use it to draw in those who are from other planets. Lester Bangs was crazy as fuck, but had a point hidden among his craziness. Robbins is definitely his own brand, but he doesn't give a flying fuck about making it palatable or accessible - which, on some level, I totally respect, but on another, I don't.The level on which I don't respect his disregard for the reader is that good art, good creativity feels as though it has a purpose, as if it makes a point, as if it reflects something about existence. This doesn't mean it has to be profound or ground-breaking, just that it captures something real, whether that reality is a feeling, a place, a time, a person, a... whatever. I think there's some kind of point hidden in here, but it's loose. It's reaching. It feels like he was just throwing a bunch of shit at a wall. You could argue Still Live with Woodpecker is about love, and that'd be sort of accurate, but the annoying thing is that the very subject he addresses is the one thing he's conventional about (I don't want to spoil it, but let's just say I found the ending/basic plot a little drab), whereas he chooses to toss convention in every other regard. He puts his personal stamp on everything except the one thing that could really use it. He reminds me of a guy who tries really hard to be funny, really hard to be profound, and it's not that he isn't funny or profound, just that because he's trying so damn hard, all of the failed efforts distract from the times he nails it.All that said, Still Life with Woodpecker has its attractions. I can see the appeal. Because Robbins' writing is so intricately connected to his personality, it possess a certain level of charm, it's fun to get lost in somebody else's world for awhile, even if you wouldn't really want to live there, and Robbins, at the very least, can certainly draw you in. He does make some interesting points/arguments here, but unfortunately he's more of a smash and grab kind of guy and doesn't really develop any of them. I can't help but feel like this would have been a better book if he had taken what's here to an editor, who would have, undoubtedly, pointed out his strongest points and had them focus on those. But Robbins' writing style is crazy - he basically writes a sentences as many times as he needs to until he thinks it's perfect, then moves on to the next, with no consideration as to what came before it or to what comes after it. He also apparently never goes back to edit. When it's done, it's done. I knew this before I read this book, and it totally shows. If he had any kind of editing, if he had any kind of pre-thought as to where he was going, he'd probably be a great writer. But maybe that's just the editor in me.This is, admittedly, the first book of his I've read. But I get a strange feeling that he's one of those, you've read one you've read 'em all kinds of authors. I'll probably pick up one of his better known works, just to see if I get more of what the fuss is about, but it'll be awhile.
What do You think about Still Life With Woodpecker (2001)?
The ninth book I read on my commute in 2007. I read this right after Ulysses, as kind of a palate-cleanser, since Tom Robbins is pretty far from James Joyce. But I kept thinking as I read this one about how both it and Ulysses were so very much products of their respective times - Ulysses of Ireland in the 1930s, and Still Life with Woodpecker of the U.S. in the 1970s.The example that amused me the most is that, in SLWW, a certain famous figure is held up with great reverence and love ... and that figure is Ralph Nader. Anyone who was of voting age in the year 2000 remembers the impact Nader had on the presidential election, and the closer one was to the voting age that year, the more likely one thinks of Nader as "ruining" the election and contributing in part to making the world what it is today. But apparently, back in the 70's Nader was a guy that idealistic kids who wanted to save the world could really look up to and adore. Strange world.Anyway, this book is classic Tom Robbins, with lots of wacky characters and preposterous plot twists, and a happy ending to boot. It was a successful antidote to Joyce. It also contains some of the greatest passages about tequila ever written in an American novel (to my knowledge and in my opinion). A lot of the cultural stuff is funny because Robbins makes fun of it, and does so with such skill that it doesn't matter if I only barely remembered such 70's oddities. But in the end it's a story about making love stay, and everyone could use a story like that now and then.
—Dale
Oh my goodness gracious where to begin with this one? This thing was nuts, absolutely crazy ... or was it! I don’t know. It confused me, befuddled me, induced laughter and suppressed snickers at inopportune moments, made me cringe and blush at its crudeness and lewdness (over the years I’ve heard tons of street slang describing human genitalia but never before have I heard a vagina referred to as peachfish or peachclam), pushed me to reconsider 1970s U.S. history, conjured up images of Patty Hearst, aka Tania the urban guerrilla, machine gun in hand standing in front of the seven headed cobra of the Symbionese Liberation Army, domino theory and American intervention around the world, the man in the moon and lemac (as high school kids we smoked cigarettes to be cool and Camel was the brand to smoke. Camel spelled backwards is l-e-m-a-c. I don’t remember why we referred to our Camel cigs as Lemac, maybe just because we were stupid high school kids!). At least this book made me think right? Small world – the Camel pack is a star performer in this story.The plot? Oh yea the plot. It’s a strange and unusual love story/fairy tale loaded with lots of political and social commentary, some literal, lots figurative. Without personally experiencing the life and times of the 1960s and 1970s, I’m not sure if this book would have much meaning at all, unless you have a decent understanding of U.S. history and culture, or maybe counter culture, of the 60s and 70s.King Max and Queen Tilli Furstenburg-Barcalona and their daughter twenty year old Princes Leigh-Cheri, live in exile on the shores of Puget Sound in Seattle after a United States and Catholic Church supported right wing junta deposed the Furstenburg-Barcalona royalty. The CIA resettles them in Seattle with a small living stipend to keep quiet about the coup and not incite loyalist revolutionaries.Princes Leigh-Cheri, a redheaded vegetarian liberal who crusades for ecology, conservation and preservation, meets 36 year old Bernard Mickey Wrangle aka T. Victoria Firecracker aka The Woodpecker, leader of the Woodpecker Gang, a self-proclaimed outlaw who blows up draft boards and induction centers during the last days of Vietnam, at the Geo-Therapy Care Fest in Hawaii. Despite Bernard’s penchant for dynamite, he is a good guy! Only bombed buildings, not people. Under the influence of tequila The Woodpecker dynamites the UFO Conference instead of his intended target the Care Fest. Princess Leigh-Cheri attempts to invoke a citizen’s arrest of Bernard and they fall in love!“Woodpecker’s my name, and outlawing’s the game. I’m wanted in fifty states and Mexico. It’s nice to be wanted, and I’d like to be wanted by you. In fact, I just blew my disguise in the hopes that it would open your eyes and soften your heart. There. My cards are on the table...”Strange so far right? It gets weirder and weirder but enough with plot regurgitation. Suffice it to say Bernard is in and out of jail through escapes and plea bargains while the Princess holes up in the royal attic on the shores of the Puget Sound to contemplate the moon, life in a Camel pack and pyramid power, a redhead conspiracy, CHOICE, lunaception and the planet Argon! How does one make love stay, she ponders, and where does passion go when it goes? On the fourth day of self-imposed attic dwelling, Leigh-Cheri thought about the problem with romance. “When we’re incomplete, we’re always searching for someone to complete us. When, after a few years or a few months of a relationship, we find that we’re still unfulfilled, we blame our partners and take up with someone more promising. This can go on and on – series polygamy – until we admit that while a partner can add sweet dimensions to our lives, we, each of us, are responsible for our own fulfillment. Nobody else can provide it for us, and to believe otherwise is to delude ourselves dangerously and to program for eventual failure in every relationship we enter.” Hummmm ...Escaping imprisonment from within the replica of the Pyramid of Giza A'ben Fizel had constructed for her as an engagement present using Bernard’s last stick of dynamite, The Princess and the Woodpecker return to a quiet life in the royal home in exile on the shores of the Puget Sound. Leigh-Cheri takes up easel painting. Still lifes. Bernard The Woodpecker carried around wooden matches!My initial reaction to this book was, “This was a #1 Bestseller back in 1980? What???” It seemed so frivolous, a monumental time suck! But I stuck with it and actually got into it. As whimsical, satirical and at times poetic as it was, it brought back some very interesting memories about growing up in the time of pyramid power, domino theory and the Vietnam War but also the birth of environmentalism, feminism and individualism. Even the reference to the Remington SL3 brought back some very fond memories of typewriters and my old IBM Selectric!This thing is truly odd indeed. But lots of fun too!
—Bill
Tonight I feel generous. Tonight I feel enchanted by the purpose of the moon. So tonight, I will allow four glittering stars to orbit this frustrating crank of a novel. Without parroting the sensible assertions from the hundred or so Goodreaders, let me be brief and say: I agree, in part, with every criticism and praise in some small way about Robbins. I do. And yes, this book does contain sentences like:As he throbbed in her throat, pumping jet after jet of that steamy translucent mucilage with which Cupid tries to glue the world together, she felt as if she were gulping concentrated ecstasy, and it made her blood croon.But. Well, I have a house-big heart for comic novelists. I can tolerate their verbose, stylised prose, their cardboard characters acting as mouthpieces for authorial diatribes, their devotion to female genitals (as a ‘peachfish,’ no less), and general disregard for basic narrative techniques. I can tolerate it, but only once a year. I have shot my wad of tolerance, and won’t be venturing Robbinswards again. Maybe I’ll buy a peachfish instead.What makes love stay? A prenup.
—MJ Nicholls
