The sky was a velvety black paw pressing on the white landscape with a feline delicacy, stars flying like sparks from its fur. The sky, layered with thin altostratus clouds and smog, appeared to reflect human suffering and failed to awaken in Claude visions of paradise. And here’s the kind of prose you can look forward to: Here’s what seems to pass for humor in a Tom Robbins novel: beets (the very existence of), a woman getting stung in a delicate place by a bee, and lesbians (the very existence of). People have recommended him on the basis of comparisons to Douglas Adams, but Adams is, you know, funny. Well, I officially don’t get Tom Robbins.
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