I've read most of Tom Robbins books and love the way he writes. It is pleasure to drink in his sentences, and thrill to the delectable similes sprinkled throughout the text that jump off the page like corn that's been air popped by lithe muses summoned to provide relief from life's disappointments. Gee, that was a pretty lame homage to his technique. Better to cite a few examples from the book:
The sporadic letters she'd sent me in Korea were approximately as affectionate as a foreclosure notice.
A big brooding hulk, he would puff his jowls malevolently and bulge his hyperthyroid eyes until he resembled a hippopotamus rising from the ooze, then unfold his meaty lips to emit one of those nervous little nearly silent giggles which which certain jazz drummers vent their ecstasy at the terminus of an especially complicated riff.
Dr Peters was tall, gaunt, and pale, with a weak damp smile and cold damp palms: shaking his hand was like being forced to grasp the flaccid penis of a hypothermic zombie.
His round face almost perpetually exhibited the wide-eyed gaze and surprised smile of an astonished child, one who might have had his blindfold removed to find himself in a castle filled with ice cream, puppies, and toys.
In addition to enjoying the book I've been encouraged by the thought that Robbins wrote this in his 80s. I hope I can hold on to my marbles in order to do good work in my golden years.