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How does one talk about a book so spectacularly strange and poetic and trippy? A story about an 8th century king who nearly escapes regicide and goes on to discover the secret to immortality, about Pan the goat god who is starting to vanish as Christianity takes hold, sex, olive oil, beets, perfume, and the "after-life," all written in a tongue in cheek, smitten, ironic way? A self-described epic set in 8th century Bohemia, Modern day New Orleans, Seattle and Paris.
You can't. You just say: "read this."
Tom Robbins takes a place next to Dylan, Kerouac, Vonnegut, Salinger, Huxely and Orwell, in my book.
