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A review by mastercabs
Tibetan Peach Pie: A True Account of an Imaginative Life by Tom Robbins
3.0
This might be the first memoir (I know he says that this isn't really supposed to be a memoir, but I think that's the reluctance of a writer to be defined with in a form.) I've ever read, so anything negative I might say about it could be more at the genre than this actual offering. Robbins' life is parts envy-making, excruciating, and noteworthy. Some of the cringey parts of this are clearly intended for the reader to cringe along with him, but there are quite a few that make me cringe AT him, as well. Published eight years ago, I don't think that some bits of this have aged well even in that time. Suffice to say, I sincerely doubt Robbins cares at all. And that may be the most envy-making part of his whole life. As lucky as he was to have come into writing in the "era of expense accounts" (he's the second novelist I've seen make this point - Vonnegut was the first, and they're certainly somewhat contemporaneous) perhaps the bigger point is that, at least according to this, he stumbles into the things that he does. These are his own words, but they manage to make him seem cool without being overly egotistical. He obviously tries to veer away from that. The accounts of his interactions with famous people seem less there to make him seem cool and more to draw attention to the fame as something external that added another element to the situation. (Though a few of the anecdotes about his rapport with women make me want to know the other side of the story.)
All that having been said, I return to the fact that Robbins is clearly satisfied with a pretty wild life and deserves to be. Say what you will about him, I get the sense that he's not going to care. And, if he's done all that he's done without animus or cupidity, who can really stand in judgment? Isn't that the best that anyone can really do, act without hostility or greed?
Alright, I had originally written this as a two star review, but meditating on it a bit has had me throw in a third. The last section of this I found to be somewhat depressing because I think I'd always wanted to live the kind of life that he describes, but after what he and Vonnegut wrote about what the life of an author is in more contemporary times, it would appear that it just doesn't exist anymore. That having been said, I think the only thing a person can do is try to be optimistic about what comes next and go out there and make it happen.
All that having been said, I return to the fact that Robbins is clearly satisfied with a pretty wild life and deserves to be. Say what you will about him, I get the sense that he's not going to care. And, if he's done all that he's done without animus or cupidity, who can really stand in judgment? Isn't that the best that anyone can really do, act without hostility or greed?
Alright, I had originally written this as a two star review, but meditating on it a bit has had me throw in a third. The last section of this I found to be somewhat depressing because I think I'd always wanted to live the kind of life that he describes, but after what he and Vonnegut wrote about what the life of an author is in more contemporary times, it would appear that it just doesn't exist anymore. That having been said, I think the only thing a person can do is try to be optimistic about what comes next and go out there and make it happen.