Let’s call this a catalog of memoirs/memories/mnemonic device. Object one on the list, Tom Robbins, and Villa Incognito, just finished. I remember waxing poetics, and jaunts into didactic tones, but his is an aesthete’s pedantry, one countered by enough storytelling and respect for character I am alive from it of it. ”Long live Mars Albert Stubblefield.” I am loathe to deprive the sentence of its fellows, but my scratch-n-sniff elucidation overpowers better judgement.
Something smacks of indulgence in Villa Incognito, in all of his work, but maybe that’s the style he proffers in, and what if style births character, in a back-handed fashion? I am besotted, but a little worried. Can I separate Jace from myself enough to make him his own, yet retain enough to flesh him? Know his mind? And Stella. Is she too much me? What nags is the epiphany that she needed to be me, had been me all along. Time ought to comment.
But wait. On further reflection; am I annoyed by his character’s passions/quirks/revelry in sex because of my own problems, or because every single one of his characters are the same; that is, an extension of Robbins? And if so, can I fault him for it?
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