Quote

Hold on to your divine blush, your innate rosy magic, or end up brown. Once you're brown, you'll find out you're blue. As blue as indigo. And you know what that means. Indigo. Indigoing. Indigone.

Tom Robbins

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Tom Robbins
Age: 92
Born: 1932
Born: July 22
Author
Autobiographer
Biographer
Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Blowing Rock
North Carolina
Thomas Eugene Robbins
Blue
Magic
Hold
Indigo
Divine
Rosy
Means
Blush
Ends
Innate
Find
Divinity
Mean
Brown

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Though February lay about her shoulders like a cloak of lead.
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Philosophers have argued for centuries about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, but materialists have known all along that it depends on whether they are jitterbugging or dancing cheek to cheek.
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When we accept small wonders, we qualify ourselves to imagine great wonders.
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What is politics, after all, but the compulsion to preside over property and make other peoples' decisions for them?
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The only authority I respect is the one that causes butterflies to fly south in fall and north in springtime.
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Love is the ultimate outlaw. It just won't adhere to any rules. The most any of us can do is sign on as its accomplice.
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Live the beauty or your own reality.
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If you're honest, you sooner or later have to confront your values. Then you're forced to separate what is right from what is merely legal. This puts you metaphysically on the run. America is full of metaphysical outlaws.
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Zippers are primal and modern at the very same time. On the one hand, your zipper is primitive and reptilian, on the other, mechanical and slick. A zipper is where the Industrial Revolution meets the Cobra Cult.
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You're better equipped for this world than I am, she said. I'm always trying to change the world. You know how to live in it.
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I show up in my writing room at approximately 10 A.M. every morning without fail. Sometimes my muse sees fit to join me there and sometimes she doesn't, but she always knows where I'll be. She doesn't need to go hunting in the taverns or on the beach or drag the boulevard looking for me.
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Usually, autobiography is such an indulgence of the ego.
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I journey to the east, where I have been told, there are men who have taught death some manners.
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Death is simple. Life is messy. Give me life, the more complicated the better.
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Anyone who maintains absolute standards of good and evil is dangerous. As dangerous as a maniac with a loaded revolver.
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The odor of frying bacon, sausage links, and ham tiptoed on little pig feet all the way to the north end of the second floor. Inevitably, the odor made her simultaneously ravenous and nauseated. She hated the sensation. It reminded her of pregnancy. Every Sunday morning, Leigh-Cheri awoke to a pan of fried fear.
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The author isn't altogether certain that there is any such thing as exaggeration. Our brains permit us to use such a wee fraction of their resources that, in a sense, everything we experience is a reduction. We employ drugs, yoga techniques and poetics - and a thousand more clumsy methods - in an effort just to bring things back up to normal.
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There are apparently few limitations either of time or space on where the psyche might journey and only the customs inspector employed by our own inhibitions restricts what it might bring back when it reenters the home country of everyday consciousness.
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You are what you think you eat.
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Love is dope, not chicken soup.
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