That was a couple years before I discovered Anais Nin, and even she saw herself through Henry Miller’s eyes. The point is: reading Tom Robbins as an introductory sex manual was both helpful and very, very confusing. Lawrence, but damn confusing all the same. Learning how to see yourself as a woman through the eyes of a middle-aged pervy writer dude is, you know, kind of confusing if you’re a teenage girl. While Robbins paid homage to the aforementioned pussy, he did so through his very male gaze. My parents would not let me go to the local mall by myself, but they paid zero attention to what I was reading. I definitely do not miss, however, how, way back then, I had to rely on fiction to give me the information I wanted about how things work with the matters of the heart–as well as with those oft-legislated organs. In many ways, I long very much for that bygone galaxy.
Was it because he worshipped what others could barely grab? According to some sources, Robbins was also labeled “the most dangerous writer in the world” by the legendary Italian critic Fernanda Pivano. Tom Robbins is the author of Jitterbug Perfume, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, and numerous other works that earned him the honor of being named one of the 100 Best Writers of the 20th Century by Writer’s Digest in the year 2000. Well, my friends, while some individuals spent the dregs of the twentieth century grabbing pussy, Mr. Robbins was writing about it. Long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away–that is, in 1990s mid-Atlantic America, in which I was miserable in a very teenage way, being a teenager–I began to read Tom Robbins.
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