Still Life with Woodpecker

by Tom Robbins

Overview

A startlingly original novel from the New York Times bestselling author hailed by Financial Times as “one of the wildest and most entertaining novelists in the world”

“[Tom] Robbins’s comic philosophical musings reveal a flamboyant genius.”—People

Still Life with Woodpecker is a sort of a love story that takes place inside a pack of Camel cigarettes. It reveals the purpose of the moon, explains the difference between criminals and outlaws, examines the conflict between social activism and romantic individualism, and paints a portrait of contemporary society that includes powerful Arabs, exiled royalty, and pregnant cheerleaders. It also deals with the problem of redheads.

“Robbins is a fabulous storyteller.”—The Boston Globe

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780553348972
Publisher:	Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:	04/01/1990
Edition description:	Reissue
Pages:	288
Product dimensions:	5.18(w) x 8.24(h) x 0.66(d)

About the Author

Tom Robbins has been called “a vital natural resource” by the Oregonian, “one of the wildest and most entertaining novelists in the world” by the Financial Times of London, and “the most dangerous writer in the world” by Fernanda Pivano of Italy’s Corriere della Sera. His works include Jitterbug Perfume, Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates, and Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. A Southerner by birth, Tom Robbins lived in and around Seattle from 1962 until he passed away in 2025.

Hometown:

LaConner, Washington

Date of Birth:

July 22, 1936

Place of Birth:

Blowing Rock, North Carolina

Read an Excerpt

If this typewriter can't do it, then f*** it, it can't be done.

This is the all-new Remington SL3, the machine that answers the question, "Which is harder, trying to read The Brothers Karamazov while listening to Stevie Wonder records or hunting for Easter eggs on a typewriter keyboard?"  This is the cherry on top of the cowgirl.  The burger served by the genius waitress.  The Empress card.

I sense that the novel of my dreams is in the Remington SL3—although it writes much faster than I can spell.  And no matter that my typing finger was pinched last week by a giant land crab.  This baby speaks electric Shakespeare at the slightest provocation and will rap out a page and a half if you just look at it hard.

"What are you looking for in a typewriter?" the salesman asked.

"Something more than words, " I replied.  "Crystals.  I want to send my reader armloads of crystals, some of which are the colors of orchids and peonies, some of which pick up radio signals from a secret city that is half Paris and half Coney Island."

He recommended the Remington SL3.

My old typewriter was named Olivetti.  I know an extraordinary juggler named Olivetti.  No relation.  There is, however, a similarity between juggling and composing on my typewriter.  The trick is, when you spill something, make it look like part of the act.

I have in my cupboard, under lock and key, the last bottle of Anais Nin (green label) to be smuggled out of Punta del Visionario before the revolution.  Tonight, I'll pull the cork.  I'll inject 10 cc. into a ripe lime, the way natives do.  I'll suck.  And begin—

If this typewriter can't do it, I'll swear it can't be done.

Editorial Reviews

Robbins’s comic philosophical musings reveal a flamboyant genius.”—People

From the Publisher